THE  WOMAN 


'  We'll  get  you.    It  may  take  time,  but  we'll  do  it.' 


THE  WOMAN 

A    NO VEL 


BY 

ALBERT  PAYSON  TERHUNE 


FOUNDED   ON 

WILLIAM  C.  DE  MILLE'S  PLAY 

OF  THE  SAME  NAME 


ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

W.  B.  KING 


NEW     YORK 

GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1912 
THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPAKY 


By  special  arrangement  with  The  DeMille  Publishing  Company 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  FIVE  YEARS  BEFORE    .        .        .-       »       »  •.»-.  1 

II  THE  GIRL  AND  THE  BOY    .        .        >;       >:  .  21 

III  THE  MACHINE            .                                  >.-  .  42 

IV  THE  CLASH        .        .        .        ..>:..  .65 
V  JIM    BLAKE        .....        .-  .  76 

VI  A  FAMILY  Row 97 

VII  THE  TRAP Ill 

VIII  THE  TRAP  is  SPRUNG        .        ....  125 

IX  A  LION  IN  A  RABBIT  TRAP        ....  136 

X  THE  GENTLE  ART  OF  FILIBUSTERING  .        ..  .  141 

XI  IN  THE  DAY  OF  BATTLE     .        .        .        >•  .  154 

XII  THE  GOSPEL  OF  GRAFT       .         .         .:        >;  .  164 

XIII  BEFORE  THE  STORM     ....        >;  .  180 

XIV  THE  FORLORN  HOPE                            x       >:  .  187 
XV  LAUNCELOT  OR  GALAHAD?  .        .        ...       >;  .  203 

XVI  AN  ODD  ALLIANCE      .         .         .        >:        .:  .  223 

XVII  A  WASTED  PLEA                                     >:        >;  .  232 

XVIII  SIXTY  SECONDS  LEEWAY     .        .        :.;       >;  .  240 

XIX  PREPARING  THE  GRILL         .        >:        ;.,        w  .  259 

XX  THE  THIRD  DEGREE    .        .        .        >;       >:  .  263 

XXI  REPRESENTED  BY  COUNSEL          .        »        >:  .  284 

XXII  THE  LAST  CARD        .        .        >.       w       >;  .  304 

XXIII  JIM  BLAKE,  LOSER     .        .        M       :.:       w  .  316 

XXIV  THE  HOUR  OF  RECKONING        x       >.-       »  .  327 
XXV  THE  VICTOR?  337 


1824030 


THE  WOMAN 


THE  WOMAN 

CHAPTER  I 

FIVE    YEARS    BEFORE 

THE  Woman  looked  up  from  her  task  of  fitting 
the  trunk  tray  into  exact  position.  SUndish 
noted  vaguely  that  the  effort  of  packing  had  not 
made  her  red  or  frowsy.  Even  as  she  sat  there  on 
the  floor  beside  the  nearly-full  trunk,  with  a  litter 
of  garments  about  her,  her  pose  was  not  ungraceful. 
Yet  her  face  was  oddly  tense,  and  her  clenched 
hands  spoke  of  self-control  hard  to  maintain. 

"No,"  she  said  patiently,  as  though  trying  to  teach 
a  lesson  to  some  rather  stupid  child,  "that  isn't  what 
I  mean,  at  all.  I  mean,  it's — over.  Can't  you  under- 
stand?" 

"Why,  yes,"  answered  Standish,  "of  course  I 
understand.  Why  shouldn't  I  ?  It's  over.  You  will 

i 


THE    WOMAN 

be  safe  at  your  aunt's  house  by  six  o'clock  this  even- 
ing, and  you  will  start  for  Europe  to-morrow,  just 
as  you  arranged.  And  .our  wonder-week  is  ended. 
But  there  was  no  need  to  remind  me,  was  there? 
For  the  past  six  days  I've  been  counting  off  every 
hour  as  they  say  a  condemned  man  does.  And  for 
the  next  three  months  I'll  be  counting  every — " 

"Oh !"  interrupted  the  Woman,  her  hard-worn  pa- 
tience going  to  pieces.  "Won't  you  understand  ?  I 
said  it  was  over.  Over!  Not  for  three  months  or 
for  any  other  time.  But  for  always.  Why  do  you 
make  me  put  it  this  way  ?  I  tried  to  say  it  more — " 

Standish  had  crossed  the  room  in  three  steps.  He 
lifted  the  Woman  to  her  feet,  and  he  looked  into  her 
eyes  searchingly,  bewildered;  seeking  to  read  there 
a  subtle  joke  whose  point  his  grosser  masculine  mind 
had  missed.  The  Woman  was  forever  dazzling  and 
mocking  him  with  quick  unexpected  shifts  of 
thought  which  his  slower  perceptions  took  long  to 
grasp.  It  used  to  remind  him  of  an  owl  flapping  in 
pursuit  of  a  humming-bird.  He  had  said  so  once. 
And  the  Woman  had  laughed,  well  pleased. 

But  there  was  no  laughter  now  in  her  deep  eyes. 

2 


FIVE   YEARS    BEFORE 

No  more  light.  They  were  dully  resolute,  hard  with 
a  sort  of  sullen  grief.  They  were  the  eyes  of  one 
who  enters  a  dentist's  office — mounts  the  witness- 
stand  against  his  own  interest; — must  break  dire 
news  to  a  recipient  unfit  to  bear  it; — what  you  will 
— the  look  of  one  who  hates  the  duty  assigned,  but 
who  has  absolutely  no  idea  of  flinching  from  it. 
And,  behind  all,  lurked  pain  that  external  stoicism 
could  have  masked  from  no  one — except  a  man. 

And  Standish,  at  last  reading  in  part  the  expres- 
sion, felt  his  own  face  grow  blank  and  flaccid.  Even 
now,  he  could  not  comprehend.  But  something,  of 
a  sudden,  lay  like  hot  lead  within  him.  And  he 
dimly  knew  the  'something'  was  his  heart. 

"You  don't  mean" — he  began  thickly,  his  throat 
sanded  and  sore. 

The  Woman  nodded. 

"But,"  he  protested  lamely,  "it — it  can't  be.  Why, 
girl,  you  love  me !" 

"I  don't,"  she  answered,  her  voice  dreary  and  flat. 
"I  don't  love  you.  And — and  now  I  know  I  never 
did.  It  is  horrible,  isn't  it?  I'm  so  sorry." 

"You  speak  as  if  you'd  broken  a  cut-glass  dish,'* 

3 


THE    WOMAN 

said  Standish,  his  senses  rallying  after  the  primal 
blow.  "Will  you  please  tell  me  just  what  you 
mean  ?" 

"Is  it  necessary?"  she  asked  wearily.  "Can't  we 
spare  each  other  needless  pain?" 

"Needless  pain,"  he  echoed;  "when  the  ship  has 
sunk  what  is  the  sense  in  saving  the  anchor?  You 
say  you  don't  love  me.  Then  why — ?" 

"I  thought  I  did.  Oh,  I  was  so  sure  I  did !  But 
little  by  little,  for  days,  I've  begun  to  understand.  I 
lay  awake  all  last  night  forcing  myself  to  see  things 
just  as  they  are.  And  by  the  time  daylight  came,  it 
was  all  clear  to  me.  Don't  look  at  me  like  that !  Do 
you  suppose  I  enjoy  talking  so?  It  has  to  be  said. 
And  you're  not  making  it  a  bit  easy  for  me." 

"Forgive  me,"  he  answered,  a  bitter  note  creeping 
into  his  heavy  voice.  "You  are  wrecking  me.  You 
are  smashing  all  I  hold  dear.  You  are  making  my 
future  as  barren  as  a  rainy  sea.  Forgive  me  for  not 
making  the  process  a  bit  easy  for  you." 

"You  have  no  right  to  say  such  things!"  she 
flared.  "It  is  cowardly.  It  is  ungenerous." 

"Why?  Because  you  are  a  woman?  A  woman 
4 


FIVE    YEARS    BEFORE 

may  flay  a  man.  She  may  break  his  life  to  pieces 
for  her  own  amusement.  If  he  dares  to  protest,  he 
is  cowardly  and  ungenerous.  Because  she  is  a 
woman.  A  man's  hands  are  tied  behind  him  by  that 
asinine  old  tradition.  How  about  the  woman  who 
pommels  a  man  when  she  knows  his  hands  are  so 
tied  ?  Isn't  she  as  'cowardly'  and  'ungenerous'  as  I 
would  be  if  I  thrashed  a  cripple?  And  yet  women 
clamor  for  their  'rights !' — Rights !  With  one-tenth 
of  the  'rights'  that  silly  chivalry  showers  upon 
women,  I  could  conquer  the  whole  world !" 

"But  you  could  not  conquer  one  woman.  If  I 
begged  you  to  avoid  a  scene  it  was  as  much  for  your 
own  sake  as  for  mine.  Since  you  will  have  one,  let's 
get  it  over  with  as  quickly  as  we  can.  Here  is  the 
situation  in  a  handful  of  words:  I  met  you.  You 
weren't  like  any  other  man  I'd  ever  known.  You 
didn't  fall  down  and  worship  me  at  sight — or  pre- 
tend to,  which  comes  to  the  same  thing.  It  didn't 
seem  to  interest  you  that  I  had  money  and  that  other 
men  made  fools  of  themselves  over  me.  And  then 
your  Quixotic  ideas  about  politics  and  government 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  appealed  to  me.  These 

5 


THE   WOMAN 

and  other  reasons  of  the  same  kind  made  me  think 
I  was  in  love  with  you." 

"You  didn't  think.    You  were !    And — " 

"Perhaps.  Perhaps  not.  Does  it  matter — now? 
Isn't  that  also  an  effort  to  save  the  anchor  after  the 
wreck?  But  never  mind.  I  thought  I  loved  you. 
With  your  impractical  high-souled  ideas  about  po- 
litical reform  and  the  people's  wrongs  you  seemed  to 
me  a  modern  Galahad;  instead  of  just  a — Don 
Quixote." 

"Akf" 

"I'm  sorry  it  makes  you  wince.  But  it's  the  truth. 
And  the  truth  is  generally  painful." 

"You  are  right,"  he  agreed.  "In  fact  I  know  of 
only  one  thing  more  painful.  And  that  is  a  lie.  Is 
it  a  lie  you  are  speaking  now  ?  Or  was  it  a  lie  you've 
been  living  for  the  past  week  ?" 

"Neither,  I  think,"  said  the  Woman.  "But  that 
isn't  the  point.  When  you  wanted  to  marry  me,  I 
felt  as  though  a  demigod  had  stooped  to  earth. 
That  isn't  the  way  to  feel  when  one  marries.  I 
didn't  know  it  then.  I  do,  now.  And  perhaps  the 
knowledge  that  I  would  not  be  allowed  to  marry  you 

6 


FIVE   YEARS    BEFORE 

just  yet,  or  even  acknowledge  our  engagement, 
helped  strengthen  the  infatuation.  Then  when  I 
found  I  must  go  to  Europe  so  soon,  and  you  begged 
me  to  give  you  just  this  one  'perfect  week',  it  all 
seemed  so  natural — so  right — so  beautiful — " 

"I  was  wrong!"  he  cried.  "I  was  insane.  I  had 
no  right  to  suggest  it.  I  had  no  right  to  let  you  con- 
sent." 

But,  womanlike,  she  would  not  let  him  blame  him- 
self. 

"It  was  not  your  fault,"  she  cried.  "Or  if  there 
were  fault  at  all  it  was  mine  as  much  as  yours.  I 
say  you  'begged'  me  to  come  here.  You  did  not. 
At  your  first  hint  I  was  as  eager  as  you.  Perhaps," 
she  added  with  a  return  of  her  forced  hardness,  "it 
was  not  quite  the  way  one  would  expect  a  Galahad 
or  a  Quixote  to  spend  a  week.  But  the  blame  is  as 
much  mine  as  yours.  So  don't  let's  talk  of  that. 
Can't  we  both  forget  it?" 

"Forget  it?    Why,  girl,  it's  my  whole  life." 

"It  is  an  episode  whose  memory  can  be  sweet  or 
bitter  as  we  choose  to  make  it.  We  were  clever 
enough  to  leave  no  trace  when  we  went  away.  I'm 

7 


THE   WOMAN 

supposed  to  be  on  a  visit  and  your  worthy  con- 
stituents were  told  that  their  congressional  repre- 
sentative was  going  away  to  recuperate,  somewhere 
in  the  mountains.  You  will  return  from  your  vaca- 
tion much  benefited — if  a  little  vague  as  to  its  de- 
tails. And  I  will  go  back  to  my  aunt's  to-night,  pre- 
pared to  start  happily  on  my  European  trip  to-mor- 
row morning.  That  is  all." 

"All?" 

Standish  gasped  the  monosyllable,  horrified  at 
her  light  matter-of-fact  tone  and  too  masculine  to 
see  with  what  fearful  effort  it  was  assumed.  Blankly 
ignorant  of  women  he  did  not  seek  to  read  below 
the  surface  composure.  The  horror  of  misery  that 
lay  behind  the  wide  hard  eyes  told  him  nothing. 
Then,  with  a  sharp  revulsion  his  nerves  gave  way. 
He  broke  into  a  rough  choking  laugh. 

"Oh,  the  comic-opera  situation !"  he  gurgled.  "In 
melodrama,  it  is  the  black-mustached  seducer  who 
lures  the  pale-faced  village  belle  into  an  unlicensed 
honeymoon  and  then  casts  her  off  with  a  few  well 
chosen  words  of  cynicism.  And  generally  she  per- 
ishes in  a  convenient  snow-storm.  But  look  at  the 

8 


FIVE    YEARS    BEFORE 

modern  turn  you  give  the  old  situation !  At  the  end 
of  one  glorious  week  you  turn  me  out-of-doors  and 
prepare  to  take  up  the  thread  of  life  where  you  left 
it  off,  just  as  if  nothing  had  broken  that  smug 
thread." 

"Nothing  has  broken  it,"  she  declared.  "I  don't 
mean  that  anything  shall.  I  have  a  right  to  be 
happy.  And  I  am  going  to  be.  I  could  let  this  blast 
my  whole  future  if  I  chose.  I  could  suffer  like 
Hester  Prynne  and  all  the  rest.  Or,  even  after 
finding  I  don't  love  you,  I  could  marry  you  in  order 
to  win  back  a  name  that  no  one  shall  ever  know  that 
I  have  lost.  But  being  neither  a  fool  nor  a  martyr, 
I  shall  not  become  a  second  Hester  Prynne.  And  I 
most  assuredly  shall  not  become  your  wife.  What  is 
left?  Why,  to  be  sane  and  to  get  what  legitimate 
pleasure  and  interest  out  of  life  I  can.  And  that  is 
what  I  am  going  to  do.  If  you  are  wise  you  will 
follow  my  example." 

"Pleasure?  Interest?"  he  repeated,  his  momen- 
tary hysteria  leaving  him  apathetic  and  hopeless. 
"God  grant  you  may  find  both !  7  can  look  forward 
to  neither.  Oh,  girl,  I  love  you !  You  are  mad — * 

9 


THE   WOMAN 

insane — to  talk  this  way — to  plan  what  you  are  plan- 
ning. Can't  you  see  it?  Won't  you  give  me  a 
chance  to  get  back  your  love  ?  I  had  it  once — I  can 
get  it  again  if  you  will  give  me  the  chance.  I  know 
I  can  make  you  happy." 

A  smile  that  savored  of  the  rack  twisted  her  set 
lips — and  died  before  it  reached  her  eyes. 

"No,  dear,"  she  contradicted  gently,  "you  can't 
make  me  happy.  I  doubt  if  you  can  make  any 
woman  happy.  A  woman — one  who  didn't  know 
the  un-Galahad  side  of  you  as  I  do — might  respect 
or  even  reverence  you.  But  you  couldn't  hold  her 
love.  No  woman  ever  really  loved  a  man  because 
he  was  good ;  or  because  he  fought  against  political 
evils  or  slew  dragons.  She  might  admire  him  for 
it.  But  admiration  and  reverence  are  pretty  poor 
every-day  fare.  When  your  wife  wanted  you  to  say 
crazy  adoring  things  to  her,  you  would  be  thinking 
out  a  new  insurgent  plan  by  which  you  could  block 
the  machine  in  congress.  When  she  wanted  you  to 
notice  her  new  dress  or  the  new  way  she  had  fixed 
her  hair,  you'd  be  scheming  how  to  break  up  sena- 
torial graft  by  direct  elections.  When  she  hoped 

10 


FIVE  YEARS   BEFORE 

you'd  buy  her  some  candy  or  a  few  flowers  on  your 
way  home  from  the  Capitol,  you'd  be  too  busy  fram- 
ing your  next  speech  to  think  of  such  trifles.  Those 
same  trifles  and  his  wild  extravagance  of  praise 
and  the  quick  noticing  of  anything  she  puts  on  to 
please  him,  are  the  cords  that  lash  a  woman's  heart 
to  a  man's.  Not  her  pride  in  the  way  he  is  fighting 
his  country's  political  battles." 

"Listen!"  pleaded  Standish.  "I'll  give  it  all  up: 
my  seat  in  congress,  my  fight  for  the  people,  my 
political  hopes — everything!  Everything  that  I 
have  worked  for  until  it  has  all  grown  dearer  to  me 
than  life.  I'll  give  it  all  up — all — if  you  will  marry 
me  and  give  me  a  chance  to  make  you  love  me 
again." 

She  looked  at  him  curiously.  And  the  hard  light 
in  her  eyes  softened  ever  so  little. 

"You  mean  it!"  she  exclaimed.  "You  honestly 
mean  it.  And — and  perhaps  you'd  do  it.  Oh,  if 
you  had  talked  like  that,  sooner,  it  might  have 
changed  everything." 

"It  isn't  too  late!"  he  urged  vehemently,  almost 
incoherent,  "I'll  do  all  I  said.  And  I'll  do  anything 

II 


THE   WOMAN 

else  you  want.  I'm  talking  like  a  schoolboy,  I  know ; 
but,  sweetheart,  you  must  see  I'm  in  earnest.  Just 
give  me  the  chance.  Just  the  chance!" 

But  the  brave  tortured  eyes  were  hard  again. 
And  he  knew,  even  before  she  spoke,  that  his  appeal 
had  failed. 

"It's  no  use,"  she  returned.  "For  the  moment 
you  almost  carried  me  off  my  feet.  I  can  under- 
stand now  why  your  speeches  that  read  so  stupidly, 
can  sway  people.  But  it's  only  an  impulse.  Inside 
of  an  hour  you  would  question  it.  Inside  of  a  day 
you  would  regret  it — " 

"No!    No!" 

"And  inside  of  a  week  you  would  be  secretly  read- 
ing every  scrap  of  congressional  news  and  cursing 
your  lot  at  being  out  of  the  fight.  It  would  be  like 
all  sacrifices.  In  time  one  gets  to  hating  the  person 
one  made  them  for.  Every  time  a  president  was 
elected  you'd  say  to  yourself:  'But  for  my  wife  / 
might  be  in  his  shoes !'  Oh,  it  would  be  misery  for 
us  both!  It  would  be  even  worse  than  this  week." 

"This  week?  This  week  that  was  so  wonderful  to 
me!" 

12 


FIVE   YEARS    BEFORE 

"It  was  wonderful  to  me,  at  first.  But — do  you 
remember  the  evening  I  put  on  the  fluffy  tea-gown — 
the  gray  chiffon  one  with  the  shell-pink  sleeve  lining 
and  facing?  You  don't.  Of  course  not — I  put  it 
on  the  third  evening  we  were  here.  I'd  saved  it 
as  a  surprise  for  you,  for  it  was  the  prettiest  thing 
I'd  brought  with  me." 

"I  don't  think  I  remember  it.  But  what  has  that 
got  to  do  with — ?" 

"I  put  it  on.  And  I  came  and  stood  in  front  of 
you.  You  were  glancing  over  a  newspaper  that  had 
just  come  in.  You  looked  up  at  me.  Your  eyes 
were  all  alight.  I  was  so  glad  you  liked  the  gown. 
I  waited  to  hear  the  beautiful  things  you'd  say  about 
the  way  I  looked  in  it.  Then  you  spoke.  You  said : 
'By  the  gods,  the  machine  has  got  poor  Kelly  at  last ! 
They've  smashed  him.  And  he  has  a  wife  and 
daughters,  too.  Poor  devil!  He  might  have  ex- 
pected it — the  stupid  way  he  tried  to  fight  them. 
They'll  never  get  me!'  Do  you  remember?" 

"Remember?"  cried  Standish.  "I  do,  indeed. 
Kelly  had  no  brains.  Nothing  but  his  honesty.  And 
his  attack  on  the  machine  was  like  a  child's  battering 

13 


a  wall  with  bare  fists.  I  told  him  long  ago  that — 
Now,  what  have  I  said  to  rile  you?"  he  broke  off 
as  the  Woman  turned  away  in  mock  despair. 

"Oh,  nothing!"  she  answered.  "Nothing  except 
to  prove  how  right  I  was." 

"You  "were  talking  about  a  tea-gown,  weren't 
you?"  he  asked,  trying  to  gather  up  the  strands  of 
conversation. 

"Was  I?"  she  replied  wearily.  "Well,  Fm  not, 
now.  I  was  trying  to  prove  that  you  aren't  the  sort 
of  man  to  hold  a  woman's  love.  Not  my  love,  any- 
how. And  I've  proved  it.  Don't  ask  me  how.  You 
wouldn't  understand." 

"Then  give  me  a  chance  to.  As  far  as  I  can  make 
out,  you  won't  marry  me  because  I  didn't  think  to 
admire  a  pink-and-gray  dress  and  because  you're 
afraid  I  wouldn't  bring  you  candy  and  flowers.  For 
a  grown  woman  to — " 

"When  one  walks  out  of  one's  way  to  avoid  a 
'Danger'  sign,"  she  said,  "it  is  not  from  fear  of  the 
board  and  the  painted  words  on  it;  but  what  they 
stand  for.  Yet  it  would  be  hard  to  explain  that  to  a 
savage." 

14 


FIVE    YEARS    BEFORE 

"And—" 

"I  could  weary  us  both  by  piling  up  reason  on 
reason  for  not  marrying  you,"  she  went  on.  "But 
what  would  be  the  use  ?  It  would  only  bring  us  both 
to  the  starting-point  of  'I  don't  love  you'.  It's  an 
old  copy-book  maxim,  for  instance,  that  respect  is 
the  only  sure  foundation  for  marriage.  Like  most 
foundations  it  is  buried  so  deep  that  one  knows  it's 
there  only  because  the  house  doesn't  collapse.  But 
it  must  be  there.  And — what  respect  could  either 
of  us  have  for  the  other,  in  later  saner  days;  when 
we  remembered  this  past  week  ?  It  seemed  a  glori- 
ous thing.  For  we  were  crazy.  But  I  am  sane  again. 
And  so  will  you  be,  in  the  course  of  time.  We  would 
both  feel  self-loathing  whenever  memory  chanced  to 
bring  this  week  back  to  us.  And  no  loathing  is  ever 
confined  to  one's  self.  You  can  see  how  it  would 
be." 

"No!"  he  denied,  "you  are  wrong.  We  would 
never  regret  this  week.  You  are  ten  thousand  times 
dearer  to  me  for — " 

"To-day,  yes;  to-morrow,  no.  And  to-day  will 
die ;  but  there  would  be  many  thousand  to-morrows. 

15 


THE    WOMAN 

I  am  not  going  to  take  that  chance.  I  am  not  going 
to  let  you  take  it.  I  would  not,  even  if  I  loved  you. 
I  didn't  see  all  this  in  time.  I  do,  now.  I  am  not 
going  to  try  to  tell  you  what  the  knowledge — the 
realization — of  our  madness  means  to  me.  But  if 
there  is  a  blacker  hell,  the  Old  Testament  neglects  to 
describe  it.  It  will  be  with  me  as  long  as  I  live  and 
no  matter  how  I  live.  Waking  or  sleeping,  under- 
neath everything  else,  will  live  that  one  vile,  crawl- 
ing, shameful  memory.  And  yet  you  wonder  why 
I  refuse  to  add  to  its  horror  by  bringing  still  more 
misery  into  my  life?  You  don't  understand  why  I 
mean* to  seize  all  the  happiness  I  can,  as  a  man  in 
mortal  pain  will  fight  to  get  even  a  partial  anes- 
thetic? You  don't  understand — ?" 

"To-day  there  seems  much  I  don't  .understand," 
he  retorted.  "But  one  thing  is  very  clear  to  me :  the 
course  you've  chosen  is  an  impossible  one  for  you. 
You  must  marry  me.  If  not  for  love,  then  because 
it  is  the  right  thing  to  do.  I  do  not  ask  you  to  care 
for  me  or  even  to  live  in  the  same  house  with  me. 
But  for  your  own  sake  you  must — " 

"It  is  for  my  own  sake  that  I  must  do  nothing  of 
16 


FIVE   YEARS    BEFORE 

the  sort.  You  get  your  ideas  of  life  from  books. 
Too  many  people  do  that.  From  books  whose  au- 
thors are  no  wiser  than  their  readers.  I  am  not 
going  to  let  this  one  mistake  ruin  every  bit  of  my 
future.  I  won't  let  one  moment  of  folly  blot  all 
my  life.  Men  don't.  Why  should  women?  There 
is  still  much  in  the  world  for  me.  And  for  you,  too, 
if  you'll  look  at  it  sanely.  Oh,  I  know  my  kind  of 
sanity  shocks  you.  But  it  is  sanity.  You  are  held 
back  by  centuries  of  traditions.  Your  father  began 
life  as  a  millionaire's  son.  Mine  began  it  in  an  Irish 
orphanage.  Your  grandfather  was  a  supreme  court 
judge.  I  don't  know  who  mine  was.  There  must  be 
something,  after  all,  in  this  talk  of  heredity.  And 
I'm  glad  if  my  ancestry — or  lack  of  it — lets  me  live 
sensibly  and  not  according  to  cast-iron  family  tradi- 
tion. For  instance,  I  don't  suppose  there's  a  girl  in 
all  your  sisters'  set  who  would  have  consented  to  3 
'honeymoon'  like  ours,  is  there?  Your  sisters 
wouldn't  have  done  such  a  thing,  would  they?" 

"No !"  he  exclaimed  in  involuntary  disgust. 

At  his  word  and  tone  a  faint  red  showed  across 
the  Woman's  face  as  if  he  had  struck  her  lightly 

17 


THE   WOMAN 

with  his  open  hand.    But  at  once  she  recovered  her- 
self. 

"Let's  say  good-by  and  part  as  friends,"  she  sug- 
gested. "No  irremediable  harm  is  done.  So  long 
as  one's  own  personal  actions  don't  hurt  others,  they 
can't  be  called  wrong.  And,  except  for  myself,  you 
are  the  only  person  hurt.  You'll  have  to  stand  that 
as  part  of  the  price  of — " 

"You  are  mistaken,1'  he  broke  in.  "Others,  be- 
sides myself,  are  affected." 

"Who?" 

"I  don't  know.  But  this  I  do  know: — No  one 
can  live  to  himself  or  herself.  No  one  can  say :  'My 
fault  or  folly  hurts  me  alone.'  In  this  miserable  old 
world  of  ours,  we  are  all  tangled  up  in  one  another's 
destinies.  And  when  one  tears  loose  the  cord  that 
binds  him,  the  vibration  of  that  wrench  will  soon 
or  late  reach  and  affect  people  whom  he  perhaps  does 
not  even  know." 

"The  cord  you  speak  of,"  she  mocked,  "is  that 
holy  bond  known  as  Conventionality,  isn't  it?  The 
bugbear  that  the  weak  and  the  prim  have  raised  to 
scare  the  strong  and  the  courageous." 

18 


FIVE   YEARS    BEFORE 

"No.  The  beaten  path  that  ten  billion  failures 
and  tragedies  since  the  birth  of  Time  have  shown  to 
be  the  only  safe  one.  Conventionality's  path  may 
seem  to  the  near-sighted  to  be  twisted  foolishly,  and 
unnecessarily  long.  But  each  of  those  twists  rep- 
resents the  place  where  the  Man  in  Front  wisely 
stepped  aside  to  avoid  the  pitfall  into  which  the  man 
ahead  of  him  had  tumbled.  And  the  short  cuts  in 
the  long  tortuous  road  are  white  with  the  bones  of 
failures." 

"I'm  going  to  walk  over  those  same  whitened 
bones  in  my  short  cut  from  one  point  of  Convention- 
ality's twisted  path  to  another.  I'm  going  to  walk 
back  from  a  union  that  would  mean  misery  to  me — 
back  to  the  pleasant  home  life  and  social  life  I  love 
and  don't  mean  to  lose.  Don't  worry.  No  whitened 
bones  will  turn  under  me  and  bring  me  a  fall.  I  can 
defy  the  bogy,  Conventionality,  and  still  live  happy." 

"Others  have  defied  the  bogy.  You  are  not  the 
first  nor  the  millionth.  To  most  of  them  it  seemed 
as  safe  as  it  seems  to  you." 

"Yes?  I  should  like  to  meet  them  and  compare 
notes." 

19 


THE   WOMAN 

"You  will  not  meet  them,"  he  answered  grimly, 
"but  you  will  tread  on  their  bones — in  the  short  cut 
Even  as  some  future  challenger  of  Conventionality 
shall  one  day  tread  on  yours." 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  GIRL   AND  THE  BOY 

THE  Hotel  Keswick  telephone  girl  was  a  char- 
acter. Even  the  politicians  who  made  the  big 
Washington  caravansary  their  headquarters  recog- 
nized that.  Some  of  them  had  sought  to  unbend 
from  their  labors  at  law-building  and  law-sapping 
long  enough  to  try  to  improve  their  casual  acquaint- 
anceship with  her.  But  they  had  one  and  all  aban- 
doned the  effort. 

Not  that  Miss  Wanda  Kelly  was  in  the  very  least 
shy.  Nor  did  she,  after  the  manner  of  some  of  her 
kind,  employ  stiffness  as  the  nearest  procurable  sub- 
stitute for  dignity ;  even  as  she  used  imitation  " Val" 
instead  of  Irish  lace  on  her  collars.  No,  Miss  Kelly 
had  a  responsive  word  for  everybody.  Only,  some- 
times that  word  had  a  queer  way  of  searing  instead 
of  flattering. 

"If  Joan  of  Arc  had  been  brought  up  in  the 
21 


THE   WOMAN 

alleys,"  once  observed  the  Honorable  Tim  Neligan, 
"and  if  she'd  been  nursed  on  iron  tonic  and  learned 
her  alphabet  from  George  Ade's  fables,  she'd  have 
been  a  dead  ringer  for  Wanda  Kelly." 

To  which  the  more  or  less  Honorable  Jim  Blake 
had  made  reply: 

"Maybe  that  hello  girl  was  all  Wanda  when  she 
started  out.  But  a  Keswick  switchboard  course  has 
made  her  all  Kelly.  I  don't  know  why  no  one  re- 
ports her  for  being  fresh.  Except,  maybe,  ihat  he'd 
have  to  tell  what  he  said  to  her  to  bring  out  the 
fresh  come-back." 

In  any  case,  no  one  did  report  Wanda  Kelly. 
And  while  men  continued  to  be  drawn  by  her  sur- 
face familiarity  and  to  be  sent  scuttling  back  to 
cover  again  by  her  aggressive  power  to  take  her 
own  part,  she  continued  to  reign  supreme  at  the 
switchboard  of  the  Keswick. 

There,  in  an  alcove  under  the  great  garish  stair- 
way, she  sat  day  after  day  manipulating  her  racks  of 
switches.  To  her  left  were  the  telephone  booths ;  to 
her  right  the  corridor  where  all  the  political  world 
passed  her  in  review.  Behind  her — and,  when 

22 


THE   GIRL   AND   THE    BOY 

voices  chanced  to  be  raised  in  eagerness  or  dispute, 
in  easy  ear-shot — was  a  spot  where  far  more  history 
was  made  than  in  the  Capitol  itself. 

This  historic  place  was  a  deep  niche  known  to 
local  fame  as  "the  amen  corner".  It  was  off  the 
beaten  track  of  the  corridor,  yet  a  vantage-point 
whence  everything  was  visible.  Here  Jim  Blake — 
long,  lean,  saturnine  master  of  the  machine — had  a 
way  of  sitting,  his  eternal  cigar  in  one  corner  of  his 
mouth,  his  slouch  hat  aslant  on  his  head  or  under  his 
chair.  And  here,  like  filings  to  the  magnet,  the  men 
who  gleaned  in  Jim's  wake,  and  whose  political  life 
hung  on  his  curt  nod,  would  cluster. 

Sometimes  the  amen  corner  would  be  packed  with 
them.  At  such  times  Wanda  Kelly  scarcely  troubled 
to  listen  to  the  talk  that  so  easily  reached  her.  For 
she  knew  it  would  be  of  no  import, — a  few  question- 
able stories,  some  generalizing  as  to  political  moves, 
much  adulation  of  the  grim  inscrutable  boss  to 
whose  ears  such  praise  was  idler  than  the  buzz  of 
summer  flies. 

But — at  other  times  there  would  be  only  three  or 
four  men  grouped  around  the  boss.  Then,  as 

23 


THE    WOMAN 

Wanda  used  to  say,  "the  hearing  was  good".  For 
such  conclaves  meant  live-wire  work.  And  daring 
or  ignorant,  indeed,  was  the  passing  politician  who 
ventured  to  break  in  on  the  little  amen-corner  group. 

One  evening  as  the  dinner  crowd  was  drifting 
along  the  corridor  toward  the  huge  dining-rooms, 
Wanda  noted  that  the  amen  corner  held  but  two 
men.  Both  of  them  she  knew,  and  both  were  very 
evidently  awaiting  Jim  Blake's  return  from  the 
Capitol.  More  than  one  passer-by  along  the  cor- 
ridor nudged  his  companions  and  pointed  out  the 
elder  of  the  corner's  two  occupants. 

The  object  of «, these  surreptitious  glances  was  a 
fine-looking,  rather  portly  man  of  early  middle  age 
— the  Honorable  Mark  Robertson,  former  gov- 
ernor of  New  York,  present  representative  in  con- 
gress from  the  same  state  and — equally  important — 
Jim  Blake's  son-in-law.  More — he  was  the  man 
whom  the  machine,  at  its  master's  orders,  had  slated 
as  next  speaker  of  the  house.  Yes,  and  perhaps  if 
all  one  heard  were  true,  for  a  far  higher  office  later 
on. 

Wanda  Kelly  knew  this.  And,  thanks  to  over- 
24 


THE   GIRL   AND    THE    BOY 

heard  scraps  of  amen-corner  talk,  she  knew  much 
more.  She  had  often  seen  Robertson.  Now  and 
then  she  had  received  a  careless  nod  from  him  or 
from  his  stately  young  wife,  Blake's  only  daughter, 
who  so  often  while  congress  was  in  session  ran  down 
from  the  Robertson  house  in  New  York  for  a  so- 
journ of  a  day  or  two  with  her  husband  and  father 
at  the  capital. 

Yet  Wanda  wasted  fewer  thoughts  just  now  on 
the  celebrity  than  on  the  much  younger  man  with 
whom  he  was  talking.  And  perhaps  her  thoughts 
had  telepathic  power.  For,  as  Robertson  strolled 
out  into  the  foyer,  his  companion  crossed  directly  to 
the  switchboard  rail  and  stood  looking  down  at  the 
girl. 

Wanda  did  not  see  him.  Or,  if  she  did,  it  was  not 
with  her  eyes.  And  before  he  could  speak,  the  tele- 
phone buzzer  rasped  out. 

"H'lo!"  she  droned  in  the  professionally  nasal 
tones  of  her  trade.  "Yes'm — Suite  three  forty-five 
— yes'm. — Can't  get  what?  Oh,  the  five  middle 
hooks.  Of  course  not  No  one  could.  Wait  and  I'll 
send  a  maid  up  to  you.  Not  at  all.  Right  off." 

25 


THE   WOMAN 

Sticking  a  plug  in  another  hook,  she  droned : 

"Three  forty-five  wants  to  be  hooked  up  the  back. 
Yes,  Suite  three  forty-five.  No,  I  don't  know  why 
folks  who  can  afford  a  suite  can't  afford  a  maid  of 
their  own.  You'd  better  ask  her.  I — " 

Buz-z-zl 

Another  change  of  plugs,  an  instant  of  sympa- 
thetic listening,  then : 

"Yes,  sir.  I  know  how  awful  it  must  be.  No,  I 
don't  use  'em,  myself,  but  I  can  understand.  And 
it  came  apart  just  as  you'd  got  one-half  your  face 
shaved?  Yes,  sir.  I  understand  you.  What?  'Do 

well  with  all  safety-razors?'    Oh !     'To with  all 

safety  razors!'  you  said?  I  don't  blame  you.  Wait 
till  I  connect  you  with  the  barber  shop.  What's 

that?    'Hurry  like ?'    Say!    I'll  stand  for  your 

sending  safety-razors  there  if  you  like,  but  you  can't 
order  me  there,  too. — Oh,  that's  all  right.  'Pology's 
accepted.  I'll  connect  you  with  the  barber  shop. 
Barbers  love  to  hear  safety-razors  sworn  at." 

"Wanda!"  said  the  young  man  who  was  leaning 
over  the  rail. 

26 


THE   GIRL   AND   THE   BOY 

It  was  the  third  time  he  had  broken  in.  But,  busy 
rattling  the  switch  pegs,  she  did  not  hear. 

"Wanda  Kelly!"  he  exclaimed,  exasperated. 

She  looked  up  with  a  suddenness  that  startled 
him. 

"Well?"  she  asked  sharply. 

"Will — will  you  marry  me?"  he  blurted,  her  un- 
expected word  and  look  driving  the  speech  from 
his  lips  as  though  he  had  been  struck  between  the 
shoulders. 

"What?"  she  queried  in  polite  surprise. 

"I  asked,"  he  said,  trying  to  cover  up  his  impetu- 
osity with  a  weak  show  of  irony,  "I  asked  if  you  are 
going  to  marry  me  or  not." 

"No,"  she  answered,  unruffled.  "I  am  not.  That's 
the  answer.  Same  as  when  you  asked  me  before. 
And  the  time  before  that.  And  so  on  back  to  the 
beginning.  And  then  some — until  you  can  learn 
to  take  'No'  for  an  answer." 

"I  can't  take  it,"  he  returned  glumly,  "and  I 
won't  take  it.  Maybe  you  think  I  get  a  lot  of  fun 
being  thrown  down  like  this.  It  means  more  to  me 


THE   WOMAN 

than  you've  got  patience  to  hear.  I'm  going  all  to 
smash.  Even  the  fellows  at  the  office  are  on  to  it. 
And  Mark  Robertson  was  guying  me  about  it,  not 
five  minutes  ago.  He  said  'Who's  the  girl  ?'  What 
do  you  think  of  that?  When  a  man's  own  brother- 
in-law  notices  things  about  him — Oh,  you  needn't 
laugh.  It  isn't  so  funny  to  me." 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said.  "I  didn't  know  it  meant  so 
much  to  you." 

"Do  you  suppose  I  enjoy  perching  up  on  this  rail 
like  a  google-eyed  Poll-parrot  and  squeaking 
'Wanda,  will  you  marry  me?'  and  getting  a  lemon 
each  time  instead  of  a  cracker?" 

"But  no  one  asks  you  to.  I  haven't  'led  you  on', 
as  they  say  in  books.  At  first  you  used  to  talk  a 
whole  lot  about  what  a  fine  splendid  thing  it  was  for 
a  fellow  and  a  girl  to  be  jolly  good  friends,  as  you 
and  I  were,  with  no  silly  sentimentality.  And  then, 
before  I  knew  it — " 

"Well,  I  didn't  know  it  either,"  he  growled.  "It 
just  happened.  What's  friendship  between  a  man 
and  a  girl,  anyway?  It's  just  a  trick  to  catch  one 
or  both  of  them  with  their  guard  down.  That's 

28 


THE   GIRL  AND   THE   BOY 

what  it's  done  to  me.  When  I  met  you  here  last 
fall  and  we  got  to  talking  about  Chicago  and  found 
we  were  both  homesick  for  the  old  place,  I  thought 
you  were  the  dandiest  girl  ever.  And  I  wanted  to 
be  friends  with  you.  And  you  let  me  chat  with  you 
here,  sometimes,  and  I  kept  thinking  how  platonic 
and  unslushy  it  all  was.  And  then,  before  I'd  fairly 
got  those  bearings,  I  was  off  on  another  tack  and 
crazy  in  love  with  you." 

"It  wasn't  my  fault." 

"It  sure  wasn't  any  one  else's.  And  it's  played 
horse  with  me.  When  I  first  knew  you,  I  was  a 
man.  And  now  what  am  I?  You've  got  three 
guesses.  /  don't  know." 

"When  is  a  man  not  a  man?"  she  asked  with  a 
lightness  that  a  closer  observer  of  women  might 
have  fancied  was  forced. 

"Well,  Mr.  Bones,"  he  grumbled  in  sorry  jest, 
"when  is  a  man  not  a  man  ?  When  he's  in  love,  I 
suppose.  Then  he's  a  measly  door-mat.  And  I'm 
not  flattering  the  door-mat,  at  that.  But  it's  what 
I  am.  I  lie  down  and  let  you  wipe  your  little  feet  on 
my  heart.  I  hate  it — and  I  wouldn't  stop  it  if  I 

29 


THE  WOMAN 

could.  Say,  Wanda,  the  first  time  you  said  you 
wouldn't  marry  me — or  maybe  it  was  the  second 
time — I  got  a  rush  of  self-respect  to  the  head.  I 
made  up  my  mind  I'd  forget  you  and  put  you  clean 
out  of  my  life  and  never  see  you  or  think  of  you 
again.  So  I — came  trotting  meekly  back  and  asked 
you  once  more.  And  I'll  keep  on  asking,  till  the  end 
of  the  chapter.  I  don't  want  to.  I  wish  I  had  a 
third  foot,  so  I  could  kick  myself  for  doing  it.  But 
I  have  to.  And — " 

"Excuse  me,"  interrupted  Wanda  as  the  buzzer 
purred  noisily. 

Then,  dropping  intp  her  professional  drone,  she 
said: 

"H'lo!  What?  Best  show  in  town?  Depends 
on  whether  you're  here  with  the  Baptist  Conference 
or  the  Liquor  Dealers'  Convention.  Hold  the  wire 
a  second.  I'll  give  you  Information.  I — what? 
No,  thanks.  I've  got  another  engagement.  No,  I 
can't  break  it.  Nice  of  you  to  ask  me.  No.  Noth- 
ing doing.  Yes,  that's  final.  Final.  G'by." 

"There !"  she  continued,  turning  from  the  board, 
30 


THE   GIRL   AND    THE   BOY 

"a  perfectly  good  invitation  for  dinner  and  a  show 
and  supper  afterward.  And  I  had  to  throw  it  down. 
'Heaven  will  protect  the  woiking  goil' — but  it  won't 
give  her  many  good  times." 

"Who  was  he?"  demanded  the  youth  peremp- 
torily. 

"  '  "Oh— kind — sir — I — do — not — know" — said 
— she — with — a — patient — smile/  "  lisped  Wanda. 
"Except  that  he  speaks  English  with  a  Philadelphia 
accent  and  called  up  his  wife  over  long  distance,  an 
hour  ago,  and  told  her  he'd  be  detained  in  Washing- 
ton all  night  on  business.  Poor  fellow !  He  says 
he's  lonesome  and — " 

"The  cur!  Give  me  his  number  and  I'll  go  around 
and  push  his  impudent  face  in !" 

"Don't  bother.  I  just  told  you  'Heaven  will  pro- 
tect the  woiking  goil'.  Without  any  strong-arm  help 
from  you.  Oh,  don't  look  so  cross!  It's  all  in  the 
day's  work." 

"It's  horrible  that  you  should  be  subjected  to  that 
sort  of  thing!"  he  declared.  "Wanda,  why  won't 
you  let  me  marry  you  and  take  you  away  from  it 
all?  You  surely  can't  like  this  sort  of  life!" 


THE   WOMAN 

It  would  have  needed  keener  ears  than  his  to  catch 
the  undercurrent  of  weariness  in  her  voice  as  she 
made  answer: 

"Why  shouldn't  I  like  it?  It's  full  of  excitement. 
And  there's  lots  of  responsibility  attached  to  it." 

"But  why  won't  you  —  ?"  he  began. 

To  turn  the  talk  away  from  its  old  trend,  she 
broke  in,  almost  at  random  : 

"You  don't  realize  the  power  of  a  phone  girl's 
job.  No  outsider  does.  Nowadays  there's  nothing 
from  love-affairs  to  market  orders  that  isn't  trans- 
mitted over  the  phone.  People  from  a  thousand 
different  points  call  up  people  at  a  thousand  other 
points.  Every  pair  of  people  thinks  they  are  talking 
unheard  by  the  world  at  large  and  that  just  they  two 
can  hear  each  other.  Each  of  those  thousands 
thinks  that.  But  the  telephone  girl  hears  them  all. 
I  read  in  an  old  book  once  about  a  demon  named 
Asmodeus  who  used  to  flit  about  by  night  and  lift 
the  roofs  off  of  houses  to  see  what  people  were  do- 
ing. If  he  were  living  now  he  could  save  a  lot  of 
time  and  work  and  bother  by  getting  a  job  at  central. 


32 


THE    GIRL   AND    THE    BOY 

Buss-z! 

"H'lo!"  droned  Wanda.  "No.  Mr.  Blake  hasn't 
come  in  yet.  Any  message  ?  A'riV 

"Yes,"  she  went  on  in  her  own  voice ;  "what  the 
telephone  girl  doesn't  hear  isn't  worth  the  hearing. 
We  know  more  than  the  secretary  of  state  and  the 
whole  secret  service  put  together.  Because  we  hear 
both  sides." 

"But,"  urged  the  man,  a  little  flustered  as  he  re- 
called torrid  telephonic  talks  of  his  own,  "aren't 
people  careful  not  to — ?" 

"Careful?"  she  mocked.  "On  the  phone f  Not 
one  in  forty.  And  the  'careful'  ones  are  the  easiest 
of  all.  They  mostly  forget  that  central  is  a  live  girl 
and  not  a  machine.  If  there's  anything  a  telephone 
girl  doesn't  know  it's  because  it  isn't  worth  know- 
ing." 

"But  doesn't  the  law  forbid  telephone  girls  to 
listen  or  repeat — ?" 

"The  law?  When  a  law  is  made  that  can  stop  a 
woman  from  using  her  ears  and  her  tongue — " 

"We're  getting  away  from  what  I  was  saying  to 
you,"  suggested  he.  "Why  won't  you — ?" 

33 


THE    WOMAN 

"And,"  Wanda  hurried  on,  forestalling  him, 
"sometimes  the  things  we  pick  up  on  the  wire  are  as 
good  as  any  best  seller.  I  had  a  couple  once  that 
I  followed  all  the  way  from  the  first  talk  to  the 
divorce.  He  called  up  one  day  to  ask  if  he  could 
come  and  see  her  that  evening.  And  next  morning 
when  he  phoned,  he  called  her  sweetheart  and  told 
her  he'd  been  in  a  dream  of  paradise  ever  since  he 
said  good  night  to  her.  And  so  it  went  on  for 
months  till  it's  a  wonder  the  wire  didn't  get  sugar- 
coated.  Then  he  called  up  the  minister  and  the 
florist.  And  the  day  after  the  honeymoon  he  be- 
gan calling  her  up  again.  If  he  had  to  work  at  the 
office  in  the  evening,  he'd  phone  her  to  see  if  she 
was  all  right.  Then  another  man  began  to  phone 
her  to  see  if  hubby  was  away.  And  one  evening 
hubby  left  for  New  York  and  missed  his  train  and 
phoned  that  he  was  coming  back  home  for  the  night 
and  would  start  next  morning  instead.  A  servant 
took  the  message.  I  guess  she  forgot  to  deliver  it 
to  Mrs.  Wife.  For  the  next  morning  friend  hubby 
was  on  the  phone  making  a  date  for  a  talk  with  a 
big  divorce  lawyer." 

34 


THE   GIRL   AND    THE    BOY 

"And  that's  the  dirty  side  of  life  you  have  to 
listen  to,  day  in  and  day  out  ?    It's  shameful !" 

"It  doesn't  leave  one  with  many  illusions.     But 
that's  only  the  worst  part  of  it.    There's  a  lot  more. 
Each  of  the  big  centrals  is  the  whole  world  boiled 
down  and  filtered  through  the  switchboard.     And 
the  hello  girl  gets  the  essence  of  it  all.     Every  bit 
of  it  comes  to  her.    The  good  and  the  bad,  the  wis« 
and  the  foolish,  the  order  for  a  rib-roast  with  the 
bone  sent  along  and  the  queer  sobby  call  of  the 
woman  who  tells  the  doctor  her  baby  is  dying  and 
won't  he  please  hurry?     A  man  hiccups  a  lie  to 
his  wife  about  being  kept  late  at  work  and  a  finan- 
cier speaks  ten  words  that  sends  Wall  Street  screech- 
ing up  a  tree.    Everything  goes  to  the  switchboard : 
engagement  announcements  and  death  notices,  win- 
ners and  losers,  great  moments  and  twaddle.     And 
the  operator  gets  it.    She  is  a  sort  of  Fate  that  sees 
that  the  right  people  meet  one  another.     Then,  again 
like  Fate,  having  put  them  in  touch,  she  has  to  let 
them  work  out  their  own  affairs.     Oh,  the  trouble 
\ve  could  save  sometimes  by  butting  in  with  a  few 
sentences  that  would  straighten  out  the  ugliest  tan- 

35 


THE   WOMAN 

gies!  It's  hard  not  to  interfere  when  I've  got  the 
whole  world  under  my  two  hands." 

"The  whole  world  under  your  two  little,  little 
hands !"  he  said  softly,  reaching  for  one  of  them  as 
he  spoke. 

But  the  buzzer  rushed  to  the  rescue  of  its  high 
priestess  with  a  sudden  noisy  purr. 

"Mrs.  Robertson?"  droned  Wanda  to  the  trans- 
mitter. "No'm.  Mrs.  Robertson  is  not  at  the  Kes- 
wick.  Did  you  wish  to  be  connected  with  Governor 
Robertson's  suite?  No'm.  I  don't  know  whether 
she's  expected  in  Washington  soon  or  not.  A'ri." 

"Friend  of  your  sister's,"  she  explained,  turning 
from  the  transmitter.  "She  said  Mrs.  Robertson 
wrote  her  she  was  coming  down  from  New  York 
some  day  this  week." 

"Grace  spends  more  time  on  the  trains  during  the 
session  than  she  does  at  home,"  laughed  the  youth. 
"She  wanted  to  close  the  New  York  house  and 
come  down  here  to  stay  all  winter.  But  Mark  won't 
let  her.  He  knows  how  fond  she  is  of  old  Manhat- 
tan and  what  a  lot  of  friends  she  has  there.  So  she 
compromises  by  living  in  both  places  and  in  neither. 

36 


THE    GIRL   AND   THE    BOY 

But,  Wanda,  you've  simply  got  to  listen  to  me,"  he 
went  on  with  a  return  of  his  boyish  impulsiveness. 
"I  love  you.  And  I—" 

"Mr.  Blake!"  she  protested,  half  laughing,  half 
distressed,  "I—" 

"Mr.  Blake!"  he  echoed  ruefully.  "How  long 
since  I've  been  Mr.  Blake,  to  you  ?  Haven't  I  begged 
you  to  call  me  Tom'?  It's  a  bum  name  and  it 
hasn't  an  ounce  of  romance  in  it.  But  when  you 
say  it,  it  kind  of  sounds  as  if  Handel  had  built  it 
out  into  an  oratorio.  I  always  call  you  'Wanda'. 
Why  can't  you  call  me — ?" 

"I  am  a  telephone  operator,"  she  said  with  mis- 
chievous demureness,  "and  you  are  Mr.  Thomas 
Blake,  prominent  on  the  district  attorney's  staff, 
only  son  of  the  great  Jim  Blake,  and  brother  to  a 
woman  the  Sunday  papers  call  a  society  queen." 

"Lord !"  he  growled,  "are  you  trying  to  ring  so- 
cial standing  in  on  me — at  this  stage  of  the  game?" 

"If  you  care  to  put  it  that  way,"  she  answered 
more  seriously,  "I  certainly  am." 

"What  rot!" 

"Yes?  Yet  I  notice  you  didn't  come  across  to 
37 


THE   WOMAN 

speak  to  me  until  Governor  Robertson  had  gone 
away.  And  you  never  have  thought  to  introduce 
him  to  me  when  you  and  he  have  passed  here  to- 
gether. He  has  been  governor  of  New  York.  He 
may  some  day  be  president.  Would  it  make  any 
sort  of  hit  with  him  to  have  his  brother-in-law 
marry  a  telephone  girl  that  half  his  political  friends 
have  always  been  trying  to  jolly?  Would  he  care 
to  say  to  Mr.  Neligan,  for  instance:  'Remember 
that  little  hello  girl  you  wanted  to  kiss  and  who 
slapped  your  face  for  it?  Well,  she's  my  wife's 
sister-in-law/  ' 

"Don't!"  exclaimed  Tom  Blake.  "It  isa't  true. 
And—" 

"And,"  pursued  Wanda,  "would  your  sister  call 
on  me  at  my  boarding-house?  Would  she  ask  me 
to  come  and  see  her?" 

"Would  she?"  cried  Tom,  blustering  to  drown 
a  twinge  of  treasonable  doubt.  "You  bet  she  would ! 
You  don't  know  Grace.  She's  all  right.  As  white 
as  they  make  them.  If  she  knew  I  loved  any  girl 
at  all — no  matter  who — she'd  be  the  very  first  to 
put  her  arms  around  her  and — and— 

38 


THE   GIRL   AND    THE   BOY 

"Then,"  said  Wanda  gently,  "don't  tell  her;  and 
keep  your  ideal." 

"Oh!"  he  scoffed,  nettled,  "you  think—?" 

"I  think,"  she  finished,  "we  belong  in  the  twen- 
tieth century  and  not  in  a  Laura  Jean  Libbey  novel. 
I  like  you.  You're  all  right — except  what  hap- 
pened to  you.  But  I'm  not  in  your  class.  A  lot 
of  things  count  besides  birth  and  education  nowa- 
days. I've  got  both  of  them,  all  right,  even  if  I've 
learned  to  talk  as  if  I  had  neither.  I  had  an  educa- 
tion. A  real  one.  A  pretty  good  school  and  all  that 
— before  father  died.  But  it's  hard  cash  that  scores 
every  time  over  education.  All  education  can  do 
for  a  girl  to-day  is  to  make  her  sick  to  get  out  of 
the  class  her  bank  account  puts  her  in.  That's  why 
I'm  here  and  why  I've  got  to  talk  and  act  like 
this.  It  makes  it  easier.  It's  a  sort  of  armor. 
Things  don't  hurt  so  much." 

"Don't  say  such  things.  They  hurt.  Isn't  there 
any  more  congenial  work  that  you  could  take  up? 
With  your  education,  you  could — " 

"I  could  starve  in  a  dozen  daintily  genteel  ways. 
.  I  started  my  professional  life  as  a  stenographer. 

39 


THE   WOMAN 

But  I  soon  found  it  was  pleasanter  to  work  for  a 
corporation.  You  see,  a  corporation  doesn't  try  to 
kiss  you  or  want  to  take  you  out  to  lunch.  Don't 
look  disgusted — please.  I'm  right  in  not  marrying 
you.  I've  got  as  much  pride  in  my  own  way,  I 
guess,  as  you  have.  Maybe  more." 

"Pride  doesn't  come  on  in  this  scene  at  all!"  he 
protested.  "Look  here,  Wanda,  I  hate  to  repeat 
myself  so  often  and  to  make  a  specialist  of  myself 
on  a  single  subject.  But  you've  got  to  marry  me. 
I  love  you.  And  I'm  going  to  keep  right  on  get- 
ting more  and  more  in  love  with  you.  And  I've  got 
a  fine  working  idea  that  you  care  just  a  little  bit  for 
me.  So  just  say  yes  and  save  us  both  a  whole  lot 
of  trouble.  Please!" 

She  shook  her  head  until  the  metal  band  that  held 
the  receiver  to  her  ear  threw  off  a  dozen  silvery  re- 
flections from  the  dusk  of  her  hair. 

"Then,"  he  demanded,  "give  me  one  good  sane 
reason  for  saying  'no'." 

"Oh,  haven't  I  given  you  enough  reasons?" 

"Punk  reasons,  every  one  of  'em.  A  good  reason, 
I  said." 

40 


THE   GIRL   AND    THE    BOY 

"There  is  one  great  reason,"  she  said  slowly. 
"One  that  I  haven't  told  you." 

"You  mean  you  don't  care  for  me?" 

"I  didn't  say  so.  We  needn't  go  into  that.  But1 
I—" 

Buz-z-z! 

With  a  little  sigh  she  turned  to  the  transmitter. 

"Yes,"  she  droned.  "Yes.  Mr.  Standish  is  stop- 
ping here.  No.  I  don't  think  he's  come  back  from 
the  Capitol  yet.  No.  I'm  sure  he  hasn't.  Shall  I 
tell  him  to  call  you  up  when  he  conies  in?  No? 
A'ri'." 


CHAPTER    III 

THE    MACHINE 

"'TpHE  reason!"   insisted   Tom,    "you  haven't 
J-    told  me  yet."  » 

"The  reason,"  she  answered  quietly,  "is  that  you 
are  Jim  Blake's  son." 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?"  he  asked,  puz- 
zled. 

"Everything.    When  I  met  you  I  didn't  know  he 
was  your  father.    If  I  had — " 

"But  what  difference  does  it  make?    He's  one  of 
the  biggest  men  in  Washington  just  now,  of  course. 
Perhaps  the  biggest.    But  if  you're  going  to  rake  up 
that  silly  subject  of  social  standing  again — " 
"I'm  not." 

"Then  why  does  the  fact  that  I'm  his  son — " 
"Did  you  ever  hear  your  father  speak  of  Frank  E. 
Kelly?"   she  asked;  and  the  slangy  light  manner 
had  fallen  away  from  her. 

"Frank  E.  Kelly?"  repeated  Tom.     "No.     Not 
42 


THE    MACHINE 

that  I  remember.    He's  a  novelty  to  me.    Who  was 
he?     A 'white  hope,' or — ?" 

"He  was  my  father." 

"Oh,  I  didn't  mean  to —  So  dad  knew  your 
father,  did  he?" 

"Yes.  My  father  was  a  congressman.  From 
New  York.  Just  about  the  time  when  Mr.  Blake's 
organization  was  first  getting  its  teeth  into  the  coun- 
try's throat.  Unluckily  for  my  father,  he  was  hon- 
est. Of  course  Mr.  Blake  and  the  rest  didn't  know 
that  when  they  put  him  in  office,  or  they — " 

"Oh,  come  now !    That's  rather  rough  on — " 

"When  one  of  their  crooked  bills  came  up — a  bill 
as  crooked  as  this  Mullins  bill  that  every  one  is  so 
excited  over,  this  session — when  such  a  bill  came 
up,  father  refused  to  vote  for  it.  The  trouble  with 
him  was  he  was  an  insurgent  who  tried  to  insurge  a 
few  years  too  soon;  before  Mr.  Standish  welded 
the  unorganized  insurgents  into  a  compact  fighting 
force.  It  was  a  close  fight,  and  father's  vote,  with  a 
few  more  that  he  influenced,  beat  the  bill.  So  Blake 
and  the  others  made  an  example  of  him — 'for  the 
good  of  the  party',  as  they  expressed  it." 

43 


She  broke  into  a  little  laugh  that  was  not  good  to 
hear.  Tom  Blake  winced.  But  before  he  could 
speak,  she  continued. 

"  'The  good  of  the  party!'  That  was  the  phrase. 
They  cooked  up  some  bribery  business  and  saddled 
the  blame  on  him.  They  disgraced  him.  They 
broke  him — body  and  soul.  For  being  honest!  He 
died  before  he  could  win  back  the  good  name  they 
stole  from  him.  And  the  Honorable  Jim  Blake  was 
running  the  party  machine  then,  as  he  is  to-day." 

She  ceased  speaking.  And  a  little  silence  rested 
between  them.  Then  Tom  said  in  a  voice  none  too 
steady : 

"I  wish  I  could  tell  you  I  know  you're  mistaken. 
But  I'm  afraid  you're  not.  I  know  they  do  those 
things — as  you  said — 'for  the  good  of  the  party!' 
Oh,"  he  broke  out  fiercely,  "it's  that  sort  of  game  I 
can't  understand.  I  can  never  understand.  I  know 
them  all.  And  personally  they're  white  men,  ten- 
der-hearted, clean,  honorable.  But  professionally — 
Why,  for  instance,  there's  my  brother-in-law,  Mark 
Robertson.  He  and  Grace  have  been  married  over 
three  years  now,  and  his  love  for  her  is  still  a  sort 

44 


THE    MACHINE 

of  adoration.  He's  the  perfect  lover-husband.  But 
as  a  lawyer  he  won  the  name  of  being  a  bloodhound. 
And,  as  a  politician, — well,  he's  like  the  rest.  They'll 
all  resort  to  the  dirtiest  trickery,  the  rottenest  sort 
of  corruption.  I  can't  make  it  out.  Half  the  time 
I  feel  as  if  there  wasn't  a  decent  man  among  them. 
And,  the  other  half,  I'm  proud  to  have  such  gener- 
ous big-hearted  chaps  in  my  acquaintance  list.  But 
why  should  dad's  political  deal  affect  you  and  me? 
I'm  not  to  blame  if — " 

"And  I'm  not  blaming  you.  But  I've  been 
brought  up  to  hate  Jim  Blake  and  his  crowd  and  to 
pray  for  a  chance  to  get  back  at  them.  I  know  that 
isn't  a  meek  and  womanly  way  to  talk.  But  it's  the 
way  I  feel.  I — I  loved  my  father  so!  My  square, 
honest,  white  father.  And  they  killed  him.  Ah, 
there's  something  coming  to  that  crowd !  To  Blake 
and  all  of  them!  And  it's  coming  from  me.  Some 
day  I  may  be  able  to  deliver  the  goods!  I — I 
oughtn't  to  talk  so  to  you,"  she  caught  herself  up, 
half  apologetically.  "I'm  afraid  I  hurt  you.  Per- 
haps you  didn't  fully  know — " 

"I've  been  finding  out,"  answered  Tom.  "These 
45 


THE   WOMAN 

last  few  months  since  I've  been  in  the  thick  of 
.Washington  politics  have  opened  my  eyes  to  a  lot  of 
things  I  wish  I'd  never  seen.  But  none  of  those 
things  has  a  right  to  come  between  you  and  me, 
Wanda.  The  machine's  done  harm  enough  without 
breaking  up  our  two  lives.  And  if  you  really  like 
me—" 

"I  do,"  she  said,  with  a  momentary  return  of  her 
old  manner.  "But  we  don't  marry  every  one  we 
like — unless  we  happen  to  travel  in  the  Newport  set. 
If  I  married  you,"  she  continued  more  gravely,  "it 
would  look  as  if  I  were  forgiving  what  they  did. 
And  I'll  never  do  that.  I  lived  too  close  to  the 
horror  of  it  all.  I  don't  want  restitution  from  them. 
There  is  no  restitution.  I  want  to  get  square  with 
them.  I  want  it  more  than  everything  else  on  earth. 
And  as  long  as  I  keep  on  feeling  that  way  I  can 
never — " 

"Why  in  blazes  did  it  have  to  be  your  father,  of 
all  men,  that  they  chose  to — !" 

"It  didn't.  He  was  just  one  of  hundreds  that  the 
party  machine  smashed.  He  used  to  say  the  ma- 
chine was  like  the  Juggernaut  car,  crushing  every- 

46 


THE    MACHINE 

thing  that  dared  stand  in  its  path.  Jim  Blake  guides 
that  car.  And  he  guides  it  over  the  bodies  of  better 
men.  He  and  his  crowd  prosper.  But  something's 
coming  to  them,  just  the  same.  One  man  can  do 
wrong,  perhaps,  now  and  then,  and  get  away  with  it. 
But  a  whole  crowd  can't  go  on  ruining  decent  men's 
lives  for  years  and  trampling  on  the  country's  rights, 
without  one  or  two  of  them  some  day  suffering  for 
it." 

"But—" 

"The  machine  has  tried  to  run  over  the  wrong 
man  at  last.  And  its  joints  and  wheels  are  rattling 
with  fear.  Standish  became  an  insurgent.  But  he 
had  the  cleverness  and  the  strength  not  to  be 
crushed.  And  he  has  rallied  weaker  stupider  in- 
surgents around  him,  till  he  has  formed  an  obstacle 
the  machine  can't  override.  He's  done  more.  He's 
roused  the  whole  people.  And  the  people  are  watch- 
ing their  representatives  so  closely,  at  last,  that  a  I 
lot  of  crooks  have  to  play  fair  or  lose  their  jobs. 
Oh,  I'm  following  Standish's  work!  When  he 
clashed  horns  with  Jim  Blake  over  this  Mullins  rail- 
road bill  it  did  me  good  all  over.  For  when  Stand- 

47 


THE   WOMAN 

ish  defeats  the  Mullins  bill  he'll  break  the  backbone 
of  Jim  Blake's  political  power.  Yes,  and  he'll 
smash  Jim  Blake's  plan  to  put  Governor  Robertson 
in  the  speaker's  chair.  He'll  keep  Robertson  out. 
And  he'll  sit  there  himself.  And  when  he  doejj — his 
gavel  blows  will  beat  the  Juggernaut  car  into  scrap- 
iron." 

"Wanda!"  protested  Tom,  amazed  at  her  tirade. 
"Haven't  we  better  things  to  talk  than  politics?  I'll 
tell  dad  about  your  father  and  see  if  he  won't — " 

"No!  You  mustn't.  You  must  promise  not  to 
tell  him  who  I  am.  Promise !" 

"Oh,  I  promise,  if  you  like.  But  I  can't  bear  to 
have  you  go  on  hating  dad.  He's  the  kindest,  dear- 
est old  chap  alive.  Maybe  he  didn't  know — " 

"Does  the  organization  do  anything  Jim  Blake 
doesn't  know  and  dictate?" 

"Mister  Thomas  Blake !"  paged  a  liveried  boy,  at 
the  far  end  of  the  corridor.  "Mister  Thomas 
Blake!" 

Tom  caught  sight  of  a  telegram  on  the  tray  the 
lad  carried.  But  before  he  could  signal  the  boy 
himself,  the  latter  had  gone  out  of  sight. 

48 


THE    MACHINE 

"He's  carried  it  to  the  bar  with  all  the  unerring 
instinct  of  a  homing  dove !"  grumbled  Tom.  "And 
he'll  bawl  'Mister  Thomas  Blake!'  in  that  disrepu- 
table place  for  a  solid  hour  if  I  don't  go  and  choke 
him  off!" 

Wanda  watched  her  suitor  hurry  away  in  search 
of  his  quarry,  and  her  dark  eyes  took  on  a  tenderer 
light  than  ever  he  had  seen  in  them.  Then,  at  sound 
of  a  chance  word  behind  her,  she  became  all  at  once 
her  alert  businesslike  self  again.  She  glanced  into 
a  little  mirror  that  swung  obliquely  from  the  top  of 
the  switchboard.  In  this  bit  of  glass,  without  turn- 
ing, she  could  command  a  full  view  of  the  amen 
corner  a  few  feet  to  the  rear  of  the  switchboard  rail. 

Three  men  had  seated  themselves  there.  One  she 
recognized  as  the  Honorable  Tim  Neligan;  and  a 
second  as  the  Honorable  Silas  Gregg,  a  leggy  and 
tow-headed  representative  from  Kansas.  The  third 
of  the  trio  was  an  iron-gray  man  of  clean-cut  face 
and  scrupulously  well  groomed  aspect. 

Wanda  knew  him  well,  by  sight.  For  whenever 
political  crises  swept  Washington  he  was  as  certain 
to  appear  as  are  vultures  to  congregate  for  the  feast. 

49 


THE   WOMAN 

He  was  Ralph  Van  Dyke,  a  New  Yorker,  and  coun- 
sel for  a  great  railroad.  His  was  one  of  the  shrewd- 
est legal  minds  in  America.  And  he  had  so  carefully 
trained  that  mind  to  the  million  dark  intricacies  of 
corporation  law  as  to  be  doubly  worth  the  annual 
fortune  he  reaped  for  the  'interests'. 

Ralph  Van  Dyke  might  have  been  governor,  sen- 
ator— anything  he  chose.  Where  he  could  not  have 
stormed  his  way  he  could  have  wormed  it.  But  he 
preferred  to  pull  the  strings  and  to  use  his  almost 
uncannily  agile  brain  in  making  the  puppets  dance 
and  in  shaping  a  nation's  straight  laws  to  fit  his 
crooked  will.  What  Jim  Blake  was  in  politics, 
Ralph  Van  Dyke  was  in  corporation  law.  The 
chance  word  Wanda  had  just  overheard  had  been 
spoken  by  him. 

"Are  things  still  going  as  badly  with  the  Mullins 
bill  as  when  you  wired  me  to-day?"  he  had  asked 
Neligan. 

"Worse!"  grunted  the  latter.  "And  then  some. 
What  are  politics  coming  to,  anyhow?  In  the  old 
days  the  game  was  worth  while.  A  man  took  his 
share  and  no  questions  asked." 

50 


THE   MACHINE 

"But  the  bill—"  said  Van  Dyke. 

"Well,  we  got  the  house  adjourned  without  com- 
ing to  a  vote.  That's  the  best  I  can  report.  At  that, 
it's  only  adjourned  till  ten  o'clock  to-night." 

"All-night  session,"  observed  Gregg.  "And  I 
hate  sleeping  at  my  desk.  The  chairs  are  so  small 
and  so  hard,  they — " 

"If  things  are  going  so  badly,"  struck  in  Van 
Dyke,  "Jim  Blake  ought  to  have  foreseen  the 
trouble.  He  ought  not  to  have  let  the  Mullins  bill  be 
reported  from  committee." 

"Oh,"  returned  Neligan,  "we  had  the  house 
cinched  when  it  was  reported.  We'd  have  passed 
it,  hands  down,  if  we  could  have  jammed  it  through 
then.  But  now — we  may  as  well  stand  up  to  facts — 
we're  as  good  as  licked." 

"So,"  sneered  Van  Dyke,  "you're  giving  up  the 
ship  like  that?" 

"We  don't  need  to,"  retorted  Neligan.  "The 
ship's  giving  us  up.  I  can  smell  the  salt  water  com- 
ing over  the  rail.  If  they  defeat  this  pretty  little 
bill  of  ours,  Mr.  Van  Dyke,  we'll  all  be  splashing 
around  in  the  drink." 

51 


THE   WOMAN 

"A  year  ago,"  mused  Van  Dyke,  "I  should  have 
laughed  at  any  man  who  could  have  prophesied  such 
a  thing." 

"A  year  ago,"  said  Gregg,  "Standish  hadn't  got 
his  insurgents  so  well  in  hand.  And,  what's  a  lot 
more  to  the  point,  he  didn't  have  the  whole  sheep- 
faced  public  behind  him  as  he  has  now.  He's  the 
greatest  fighter,  ever.  And  to  think  when  the  party 
elected  him  we  thought  he'd  come  in  and  be  counted, 
as  meek  as  Moses." 

"But,  gentlemen,"  urged  Van  Dyke  impatiently, 
"this  bill  has  to  pass." 

"Sure  it  has,"  gloomily  assented  Neligan.  "Only 
it  can't.  Unless  something  explodes  Standish  be- 
fore it  comes  to  a  vote.  Oh,  it's  the  people !  They're 
reform-crazy.  They  don't  know  what  they  want, 
and  nine  years  out  of  ten  they  don't  want  anything 
except  to  stay  asleep  and  let  the  right  crowd  handle 
the  country.  But  when  a  man  like  Standish  gets 
them  to  listen  to  him,  they  all  wake  up  and  yell  for 
reform  and  purity  in  politics  as  hard  as  a  waking 
baby  squalls  for  its  bottle.  They've  made  him  a  pop- 
ular idol." 

52 


THE    MACHINE 

'The  people !"  scoffed  Van  Dyke.  "They  make 
an  idol  one  minute  and  overturn  it  the  next" 

"That's  right,"  agreed  Gregg,  "but  the  Mullins 
bill  will  be  defeated  before  they  get  time  to  over- 
turn Standish.  Take  my  own  case.  I'm  as  good  an 
organization  man  as  any  one.  It'd  be  a  lot  to  me 
to  vote  for  the  Mullins  bill.  But  I  daren't.  The 
folks  out  home  are  watching  me  like  cats  at  a  mouse- 
hole.  I'm  getting  hundreds  of  letters  and  telegrams 
from  'em  every  day  telling  me  what'll  happen  to  me 
if  I  don't  Vote  with  Standish  against  the  bill.  If  I 
vote  for  it  I  lose  my  job.  This'll  be  my  last  glimpse 
of  good  old  Washington.  And  a  lot  of  the  rest  are 
in  the  same  boat.  They've  got  to  vote  against  the 
Mullins  bill  or  lose  their  jobs.  The  people  are 
awake.  They  really  seem  to  have  an  idea  we  ought 
to  keep  some  of  our  promises.  And,  say!  After 
all,  we  did  promise  them  a  lot  of  things." 

"Did  we?"  echoed  Neligan.  "We  made  our  plat- 
form look  like  a  cross-section  of  the  Ten  Command- 
ments, fringed  with  pages  of  Pilgrim's  Progress. 
Yah!  That's  the  trouble.  We're  over-promised." 

"Standish  is  doing  his  share  of  promising,  too," 
53 


THE   WOMAN 

observed  Van  Dyke.  "Yet  I  notice  the  people  seem 
to  believe  him,  even  now  that  they've  stopped  be- 
lieving you  gentlemen." 

"He's  new,"  snapped  Neligan.  "That's  why. 
Folks'll  always  believe  anything  new.  If  the  Bible 
could  be  sprung  on  'em  as  a  twentieth-century  find, 
the  millennium  would  be  here  before  Decoration 
Day.  Standish  is  the  newest  man.  And  he's  honest, 
too.  We've  got  to  hand  him  that.  He  is  honest. 
And  somehow,  people  fall  for  honesty.  It's  the  best 
graft  in  the  whole  bag.  That  honesty  of  his  has 
caught  the  crowd.  What  he  says  the  crowd  believes. 
And  what  the  crowd  believes,  the  papers  print.  See 
the  afternoon  papers,  to-day,  either  of  you?  Why, 
when  I  got  through  reading  about  myself,  it  was  all 
I  could  do  to  keep  from  yelling,  'Help!  P'lice! 
Catch  me  and  run  me  in  before  I  tear  away  from 
myself  and  commit  a  new  batch  of  crimes!' ' 

"If  I  didn't  know  you,  Neligan,"  said  Van  Dyke 
coldly,  "I  should  say  you  had  an  acute  attack  of 
nervousness.  You — " 

"Who?  Me?  Nervous?  Not  I.  Not  a  speck 
nervous.  Only  scared.  Just  scared  to  a  frazzle, 

54 


THE    MACHINE 

that's  all.  Standish  has  got  us  running  so  fast  that 
there's  no  stopping  to  think  about  bum  nerves.  He 
lands  on  us  everywhere,  till — " 

"And  you've  grown  too  timid  or  too  peaceful  or 
too  awkward  to  hit  back  ?"  queried  Van  Dyke.  "Is 
that  it?" 

"No,"  said  Neligan,  not  in  the  least  ruffled  by  the 
affront  in  words  and  voice.  "It  isn't  a  question  of 
that.  We  can't  find  a  place  to  hit  him.  He's  solid 
to  the  core.  Not  a  soft  spot  on  him." 

"In  the  old  days,"  reminisced  Gregg  sadly,  as  he 
gorged  a  truly  wondrous  quantity  of  loose  chewing 
tobacco  from  a  tarnished  nickel  box.  "In  the  old 
days,  it  didn't  used  to  matter  if  a  man  had  a  soft 
spot  or  not.  We  could  lam  him  just  the  same  till  he 
got  one.  But  I  don't  know  what's  come  over  the 
people.  They  used  to  swaller  whole  every  juicy 
p'litical  story  we'd  feed  'em.  Nowadays  the  story's 
got  to  be  so  true  that  it  reads  like  a  'rithmetic  book 
before  they'll  believe  a  word  of  it.  Every  detail's 
got  to  be  proved  and  all  garnished  with  affidavits 
before  the  public'll  eat  it  or  the  papers  dare  print  it. 
And  there's  no  such  story  we  can  get  on  Mat 

55 


THE   WOMAN 

Standish.  In  the  good  old  times  we  could  have 
made  the  public  believe  he'd  killed  his  grandmother 
for  the  amalgam  fillings  in  her  teeth,  easier'n  we 
could  make  'em  believe  to-day  that  he'd  stayed  home 
from  prayer-meeting  one  rainy  night  when  he  had 
pneumonia.  Lord!  To  think  the  day  has  come 
when  campaign  stories  have  got  to  be  true!" 

"It's  the  churches!"  supplemented  Neligan. 
"That's  what's  licking  us  all  across  the  board.  Stand- 
ish has  got  every  parson  and  priest  in  America 
rooting  for  him  and  telling  their  flocks  what  a  splen- 
did fellow  he  is  and  how  he's  purifying  congress. 
Why,  in  a  lot  of  churches,  I  hear,  they  are  praying 
for  him  and  against  us.  Say,  it  sure  gets  my  goat 
to  be  prayed  against !  Makes  me  feel  kind  of  shiv- 
ery like  those  chaps  in  Richelieu  when  the  old 
cardinal  hands  out  his  curse-of-Rome  speech." 

"Nonsense!"  laughed  Van  Dyke  in  contempt. 
"Your  nerves — " 

"Nonsense,  is  it?"  retorted  Neligan.  "Maybe  the 
— the  One  who  hears  all  those  prayers  knows  it  isn't 
nonsense.  That's  what's  scaring  me." 

Van  Dyke  looked  at  him  in  crass  amazement. 
56 


THE    MACHINE 

Neligan  shifted  uneasily  in  his  seat  and  reddened 
shamefacedly. 

"If  we  could  loosen  Standish's  pull  with  the  par- 
sons," he  blustered  to  cover  his  momentary  weak- 
ness, "we'd  have  him  against  the  ropes  in  one 
round." 

"Now  you  are  talking  sanity,"  approved  the 
lawyer.  "That  was  just  what  I  was  waiting  to 
suggest." 

"Well,  we  didn't  wait  for  you  to  suggest  it,"  re- 
torted Neligan.  "We  aren't  corporation  law-con- 
tortionists, perhaps,  but  we've  got  a  few  grains  of 
gray  matter  left.  That's  the  first  stunt  we  tried. 
We  put  good  men  on  the  case  to  look  up  Standish's 
record — to  find  one  break  that  we  could  hang  a 
story  on." 

"Well?" 

"Well,  from  their  reports,  Standish  seems  to  have 
led  a  life  that  would  make  Saint  Anthony  and  Sir 
Galahad  and  the  Pilgrim  fathers  look  like  a  bunch 
of  soused  Tenderloin  rounders." 

"You're  sure  your  men  left  nothing  uncovered?" 

"Do  you  think  we'd  overlook  anything  when  the 
57 


THE   WOMAN 

whole  game  hangs  on  it?  Do  you  suppose  we  don't 
know  what  we're  up  against?  Why,  Van  Dyke,  if 
we  lose  this  fight — if  Standish  and  his  crowd  once 
get  control  of  the  house — they'll  begin  digging  up 
some  of  the  pleasant  little  deals  we  buried  so  care- 
fully. And  then  a  lot  of  us  will  spend  the  rest  of  our 
lives  in  Europe.  Yes.  It'll  be  first  steamer  to  Eng- 
land' for  the  Man  Higher  Up.  And  first  patrol 
wagon  to  jail  for  the  Man  Lower  Down." 

"That's  right,  Van  Dyke,"  supplemented  Gregg. 
"We've  been  over  Standish's  record  with  a  micro- 
scope. He's  cost  us  enough  to  make  the  search 
mighty  careful.  Even  if  you  don't  give  us  credit  for 
sense  enough  to  probe  the  business,  you'll  have  to 
allow  that  Mark  Robertson's  no  fool.  And  Robert- 
son's moved  heaven  and  hell  to  get  something  on 
Standish.  But  he  can't.  Robertson's  got  more  at 
stake  than  any  of  us.  If  Standish  licks  him  in  this 
fight  and  gets  the  speakership  it'll  cost  Mark  Rob- 
ertson more  than  most  people  could  understand. 
Self-respect  and  ambition  and  future  and — " 

"It  sure  will,"  agreed  Neligan.  "Let's  see — it 
must  be  close  on  five  years,  now,  that  Standish  and 

5S 


THE   MACHINE 

Robertson  have  been  at  each  other's  throats.  Five 
years — no,  six.  Ever  since  Robertson  ran  for  gov- 
ernor and  Standish  dug  up  that  smelly  franchise  deal 
against  him.  Robertson's  had  it  in  for  him  ever 
since.  And  now  that  Mark's  a  candidate  for  the 
speakership  and  Standish  is  bossing  the  insurgents — 
gee!  They'll  make  the  Kilkenny  cats  look  like  a 
Methodist  Sunday-school." 

"I'll  have  a  pleasant  time  explaining  this  business 
to  Wall  Street,"  muttered  Van  Dyke.  "They  still 
think  everything  is  fixed  to  rush  the  bill  straight 
through — " 

"So  everything  was,"  declared  Gregg,  "till  Stand- 
ish butted  in.  I  suppose  you  understand,  Van  Dyke, 
what  all  of  us  down  here  understand:  if  Standish 
defeats  our  Mullins  railroad  bill,  he'll  have  control 
of  the  house.  He'll  be  the  next  speaker.  And 
then  good-by  to  us!  We  won't  be  able  to  do  your 
crowd  any  more  favors,  Van  Dyke,  and — " 

"But,"  protested  the  lawyer,  "on  the  strength  of 
Jim  Blake's  advice,  my  clients — the  N.  Y.  &  N. — 
and  others  too — have  loaded  up  for  a  rise.  If  the 
bill  doesn't  pass — " 

59 


THE    WOMAN 

"Oh,  you  needn't  rub  it  in.  Don't  you  know  we 
chaps  have  a  few  shares,  too?  But  what  does 
Standish  care  for  a  clean-out  in  Wall  Street  ?  He's 
out  for  the  presidency.  And  he  knows  the  speaker- 
ship's  the  sure  road  to  the  White  House." 

"But  the  machine's  strong  enough — " 

"No,  it  isn't.  It  was.  But  it  isn't.  A  lot  of  our 
best  men  are  just  like  poor  old  Gregg  here.  The 
'old  folks  at  home'  are  watching  'em.  They've  got 
to  vote  against  the  bill  or  else  lose  their  jobs.  Say !" 
with  a  weak  burst  of  fury,  "why  in  blazes  can't  a 
man's  constituents  mind  their  own  business  and  not 
go  getting  nosy?" 

"Just  when  I'm  all  loaded  up  to  the  guards  with 
perfectly  good  stock  that  will  go  to  pieces  like  a  card 
house  when  the  bill  fails!"  wailed  Gregg.  "And 
here,  to  keep  my  constituents  from  snowing  me 
under,  I've  got  to  go  broke  and  get  myself  called  a 
quitter  by  voting  against  my  own  interests.  And 
there's  dozens  more  of  us  in  the  same  leaky  boat." 

"Cut  out  the  whine!"  ordered  Neligan.  "You 
aren't  the  only  man  who's  bought  stock  that  Stand- 
ish will  turn  into  waste  paper.  Oh,  that  man 

60 


THE    MACHINE 

Standish!  He's  got  the  country  running  after  him 
like  a  flock  of  hens  after  the  farmer  at  feeding-time. 
They  think  his  private  life's  got  Saint  Peter  and  An- 
thony Comstock  lashed  to  the  mast  and  that  his  poli-v 
tics  are  so  pure  they'd  make  Abraham  Lincoln  feel 
like  a  ward  heeler.  He's  no  man.  He's  a  bloodless 
saint.  I  don't  believe  he  ever  so  much  as  squeezed 
a  woman's  hand  in  his  life  or  swigged  anything 
stronger  than  sarsaparilla.  How  are  we  going  to 
get  the  hooks  into  a  fellow  like  that?" 

"I  don't  know  how !"  flared  Van  Dyke.  "But  it's 
Jim  Blake's  business  to  know.  He  was  supposed  to 
be  running  the  house  and  holding  our  men  to- 
gether. .What's  Jim  been  doing  to  let  things  get 
away  from  him  like  this  ?" 

"Ah,  can  it!"  snarled  Neligan,  at  once  up  in  arms 
in  defense  of  his  adored  leader.  "Throw  the  blame 
all  over  the  shop  if  you've  got  to.  Rub  it  into  our 
hair.  But  don't  spill  any  of  it  on  Jim  Blake.  It's;! 
easy  enough  for  you  to  sit  in  your  Broadway  offices 
and  send  out  your  orders  to  the  United  States  House 
of  Representatives  and  make  your  tame  senators 
sit  up  and  bark  at  the  right  minute.  But  we  who  do 

61 


THE   WOMAN 

the  real  work  down  here — we  know  the  conditions. 
And  it  isn't  up  to  you  or  your  Wall  Street  employers 
to  call  down  a  man  like  Jim  Blake  because  those 
jsame  conditions  happen  to  be  too  big  for  even  his 
brain  to  manage.  Tell  me  this,  before  you  hand  out 
any  more  kindly  criticisms :  did  Jim  ever  lose  a 
trick  that  any  mortal  man  could  have  taken?  Did 
he?  Isn't  he  the  best  house  leader  the  organization 
ever  had  ?  Hasn't  he  put  you  people  into  the  way  of 
grabbing  millions  ?" 

"He  never  lost  anything  by  that,"  answered  Van 
Dyke  with  a  significance  that  did  not  escape  the 
ever-angrier  Neligan. 

"Never  lost  anything  by  it,  didn't  he?"  mimicked 
the  latter.  "Why  should  he?  You're  not  his 
mother  and  father.  He — " 

"Steady,  Tim!  Steady !"  warned  Gregg,  who  had 
had  some  experience  with  the  feats  his  colleague's 
wild  Irish  tongue  could  achieve  under  provocation. 
"Go  easy!" 

"Easy  nothing!"  stormed  Neligan.  "Hasn't  Jim 
got  as  much  at  stake  in  this  deal  as  all  you  smug 
gray  Wall  Streeters?  Yes,  and  hasn't  he  more? 

62 


THE   MACHINE 

Don't  he  know  the  speakership  will  mean  the  presi- 
dency ?  And  don't  he  want  it  for  Mark  Robertson, 
so  his  own  daughter  Grace  will  be  the  'first  lady  of 
the  land'  ?  And  with  all  that  in  the  jack-pot,  d'you 
s'pose  he  isn't  doing  everything  he  can  to  win  the 
hand?  If  any  man  could  save  your  rotten  bill — " 

"Come,  come !"  urged  Van  Dyke  with  an  effort  of 
lofty  patronage.  "Don't  lose  your  temper,  man." 

"Why  in  blue  blazes  shouldn't  I  lose  it?"  roared 
Neligan.  "What  use  is  it  to  me  ?  Maybe  you  think 
I'm  content  to  lie  down  and  let  you  kick  me  for  not 
obeying  orders,  when  Jim  and  I  and  all  of  us  have 
been  working  our  heads  off  to  do  it.  I  don't  mind 
for  myself.  But  when  you  come  down  here  and  say 
Jim  Blake's  not  on  the  job, — then  I  see  red.  They 
can  call  him  the  most  corrupt  politician  in  Washing' 
ton — and  a  lot  of  them  do.  They  can  yell  'grafter1 
at  him  till  they're  black  in  the  face.  Let  'em.  Jim 
don't  care  and  I  don't  care.  But  when  you  hint  that 
he  isn't  doing  what  you  bargained  with  him  to  do — " 

"Cool  off,  Neligan,"  laughed  Van  Dyke.  "Why, 
good  lord,  Tim,  I  think  as  much  of  Jim  Blake  as 
you  do.  He's  a  splendid  upright  man  and — " 

63 


THE   WOMAN 

"He  is  not!"  fiercely  contradicted  Neligan.  "He's 
a  grafter.  And  everybody  knows  it.  But,  by  the 
powers,  he's  the  very  best  grafter  in  the  business. 
And,  what's  more,  he's  my  friend.  And — " 

"And  the  best  way  to  show  we  agree  on  at  least 
one  thing,"  said  Van  Dyke,  rising  and  laying  a  hand 
on  each  of  his  companions'  shoulder,  "is  to  adjourn 
to  the  bar  and  see  what  effect  three  or  four  cocktails 
will  have  on  the  Department  of  the  Interior.  Come 
along.  We  can  leave  word  to  be  sent  for  when  Jim 
comes  in." 

Having  thus  calmed  the.storm  in  the  one  possible 
fashion,  he  led  the  way  toward  the  bar,  the  two 
others  following  amicably  enough.  As  they  passed 
the  switchboard  Wanda  Kelly's  voice  was  droning : 

"H'lo.  No.  Mr.  Standish  isn't  in  yet.  Yes. 
A'riV 


CHAPTER    IV 

THE   CLASH 

THE  telephone  girl  looked  up  a  minute  later  to 
see  Tom  Blake  hanging  once  more  over  the 
rail. 

"I  got  a  telegram  from  Grace,"  said  he.  "She 
sent  it  to  me,  I  suppose,  instead  of  to  dad  or  Mark 
because  she  knew  I'd  be  loafing  around  the  hotel  at 
this  hour  and  she  didn't  know  when  either  of  them 
would  be  back  from  the  Capitol.  Says  she'll  be  in 
Washington  at  eight.  But,  being  a  woman  or  else 
thinking  I'm  a  mind-reader,  she  doesn't  say  whether 
it'll  be  eight  this  evening  or  eight  to-morrow  morn- 
ing. I've  been  looking  everywhere,  since  I  got  it,  to 
find  Mark  and —  Excuse  me !" 

Ex-governor  Robertson  was  crossing  the  corridor 
toward  them  and  Tom  hurried  to  meet  him  with  the 
telegram.  Robertson's  cold  face,  as  he  read  the  des- 

65 


THE   WOMAN 

patch,  softened  in  a  way  that  would  have  amazed 
his  political  foes. 

"Good!"  he  said  emphatically.  "But  why  doesn't 
she  tell  whether  she  means  to-night  or  in  the  morn- 
ing? Isn't  that  just  like  Grace?  It  doesn't  seem  to 
occur  to  her  that  I'll  want  to  meet  her  at  the  train 
and  that  I  won't  know  which  train  to  meet." 

"Why  not  call  her  up  on  long  distance?"  sug- 
gested Tom.  "If  she'll  be  here  at  eight  to-night 
she'll  have  left  New  York  long  before  now.  And  if 
she  isn't  coming  till  morning — " 

"Good  idea !"  assented  Robertson,  starting  for  the 
telephone  alcove.  "Sometimes  you  actually  show  a 
gleam  of  human  intelligence,  Tom,  in  spite  of  the 
way  you've  taken  to  mooning  around  lately.  I'll — " 

He  stopped  short,  and  the  unwonted  look  of  hap- 
piness froze  from  his  face.  He  and  Tom,  on  their 
way  to  the  alcove,  were  passing  the  short  flight  of 
steps  that  led  down  from  the  outer  foyer  to  the  cor-j 
ridor. 

And  a  man  was  coming  down  those  steps.  A 
tall  man,  whose  shoulders  were  slightly  stooped, 
whose  dark  hair  was  beginning  to  grizzle  at  the 

66 


THE   CLASH 

temples,  whpse  swarthy  and  somewhat  heavy  face 
was  lined  and  hardened  by  marks  that  did  not  seem 
to  have  come  from  Time's  brush  alone. 

At  sight  of  him  Robertson  halted.  His  face 
darkened  and  his  hands  involuntarily  clenched.  The 
newcomer  glanced  across  and  his  eye  met  the  ex- 
governor's  lowering  gaze ;  then  passed  carelessly  on 
to  Tom. 

"Good  evening,  gentlemen,"  he  said. 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Standish,"  answered  Tom. 

Robertson  barely  returned  the  other's  nod.  But 
as  Standish  made  as  though  to  pass  on,  he  took 
an  impulsive  step  toward  the  insurgent  chief. 

"Well,  Standish,"  he  observed,  steadying  his  voice 
by  a  palpable  effort  into  some  semblance  of  civility, 
"I  understand  the  fight's  on  for  to-night." 

"Yes,"  answered  Standish,  pausing  as  though 
merely  to  wait  until  the  other  should  move  from  his 
path.  "An  all-night  session,  probably." 

Again,  with  a  nod,  he  started  toward  the  dining- 
room.  But  once  more  Mark  Robertson's  voice 
checked  him. 

"Did  it  ever  occur  to  you,  Standish,"  demanded 
67 


THE   WOMAN 

Mark,  "that  by  opposing  the  Mullins  bill  you  are 
betraying  the  party  that  elected  you?" 

Standish  regarded  him  a  moment  with  somber 
eyes  from  which  all  personal  emotions  seemed  long 
since  to  have  been  burned  away.  Then  he  said  in 
the  heavy  measured  voice  that  had  for  years  been 
characteristic  of  him : 

"Did  it  ever  occur  to  you,  Robertson,  that  by 
trying  to  force  the  Mullins  bill  through,  you  are 
betraying  the  people  who  voted  for  you?" 

"Even  if  it  had  not  occurred  to  me,"  replied  Rob- 
ertson in  icy  sarcasm,  "you  have  dinged  it  into  my 
ears  often  enough  from  the  floor  of  the  house.  And 
in  the  daily  papers,  too.  You  have  called  your 
former  friends  every  opprobrious  name  from  high- 
class  grafters  to  ordinary  second-story  men.  Stand- 
ish," with  palpable  struggle  between  wrath  and 
diplomacy,  "what  is  the  sense  in  splitting  the  party 
wide  open  the  way  you're  trying  to  ?  We've  got  the 
others  to  fight  without  fighting  each  other.  Can't 
we  present  a  front  as  solid  as — ?" 

"As  two  packs  of  wolves  over  the  carcass  of  a 
68 


THE    CLASH 

nation?"  suggested  Standish.  "We  could.  But  we 
will  not." 

"Oh,  be  sensible!"  urged  Robertson;  and  Tom, 
who  knew  his  brother-in-law,  noted  the  mighty 
effort  with  which  the  attempt  at  conciliation  was  kept 
up.  "We're  both  politicians.  There's  no  sense  in 
spouting  noble  sentiments  for  my  benefit.  Keep  them 
for  your  parsons.  I  was  promised  the  speakership. 
And  to  get  it  away  from  me  you  turned  insurgent. 
The  Mullins  bill — to-night's  battle — means  nothing 
to  you  but  a  test  of  power.  There's  no  principle  in- 
volved. If  you  can  kill  the  bill — it  will  prove  only 
you're  strong  enough  to  depose  our  speaker  and  put 
yourself  in  his  chair.  That's  your  game.  Why 
pose  as  a  reformer?" 

"You're  quite  wrong,"  said  Standish,  with  a  cer- 
tain irritating  patience,  "I  haven't  any  pose.  If  I 
had  I  should  not  bother  to  display  it  for  your  bene- 
fit. I  am  not  hypocrite  enough  to  say  I  don't  want 
every  legitimate  political  reward  I  can  earn.  Who 
doesn't  ?  But  that's  not  why  I'm  fighting  this  Mul- 
lins bill  of  yours.  And  at  heart  you  know  it  isn't. 

69 


THE   WOMAN 

I'm  trying  to  kill  this  bill  because  it  is  an  offense  to 
the  country's  nostrils.  The  bill  is  innocent  enough 
on  its  face.  Van  Dyke  and  the  rest  saw  to  that,  I 
suppose.  But  when  I  looked  at  it  more  closely  I  saw 
it  was  framed  to  legalize  the  over-capitalization  of 
every  railroad  in  the  United  States  and  to  undo 
what  little  good  a  few  decent  lawmakers  have  been 
struggling  for  years  to  accomplish." 

"Then—" 

"You  know  I'm  right  That  is  the  Mullins  bill's 
real  object.  That  is  why  you  people  tried  to  rush 
it  through  before  we  could  have  a  chance  to  pick  it 
apart  and  to  hunt  for  the  'nigger  in  the  wood-pile'. 
Well,  I've  studied  it  closely  enough  to  make  sure 
the  pile  contains  very  little  except  niggers.  And  I've 
made  the  public  see  it,  too." 

"Never  mind  bringing  in  your  services  to  the  dear 
public.  You  get  your  pay  for  that  from  them,  not 
from  me.  The  point  is,  you  are  lining  up  with  our 
enemies.  Standish,  I'm  not  given  to  threatening; 
but  from  now  on  you're  going  to  have  an  active 
life." 

"I  understand.  And  I  look  for  nothing  else.  If 
70 


THE    CLASH 

the  party  that  elected  me  is  betraying  the  people, 
then  I  must  fight  that  party.  As  a  white  man  I  have 
no  other  recourse.  And  naturally  that  brings  me  up 
against  you  and  your  associates  who  have  been  rob- 
bing the  country  for  years.  That  sort  of  thing  is 
going  to  stop.  One  after  another,  I'm  digging  up 
and  bringing  to  view  such  of  your  past  transactions 
as  were  never  meant  to  see  the  light:  the  Manhat- 
tan Railway  deal,  the  B.  T.  G.  bond  issue,  the 
Metropolis  Gas  Company  failure,  the  New  Electric 
franchise  and  the  rest  of  the  sorry  lot.  I've  only 
just  started  in,  Robertson;  but  already  I've  found 
out  enough  to  know  there's  sufficient  material  to 
blow  up  the  whole  capital  if  I  can  get  at  it  all.  And 
I'm  going  to.  Understand  me  clearly.  I'm  going 
to." 

And  the  heavy  slow  voice  held  no  note  of  threat, 
nor  did  it  show  the  faintest  tinge  of  excitement.  To 
Tom  Blake,  the  conversation's  non-combatant,  the 
insurgent's  rather  turgid  words  carried  far  stronger 
message  for  this  very  absence  of  emotion.  But  they 
served  merely  to  strip  from  Mark  Robertson  his  last 
shreds  of  diplomatic  armor. 

71 


THE   WOMAN 

"You  talk  like  a  reform  candidate  for  poundmas- 
ter  at  Pompton,  N.  J. !"  he  retorted.  "I've  done 
nothing  every  one  else  isn't  doing  every  day.  Noth- 
ing that  the  custom  of  centuries  hasn't  legitimated ; 
and  nothing,  I  believe,  that  you  haven't  done. 
You've  been  tricky  enough  to  cover  your  own  tracks 
and  now  you  come  around  and  brand  a  better  man 
with  your  'holier-than-thou'  epithets.  You've  made 
the  people  think  you're  a  little  tin  god.  But  you 
can't  make  me  think  it." 

"I  can't  now  remember,"  said  Standish  wearily, 
"having  tried  to." 

"Well,  you  probably  know  it  would  be  time 
wasted,"  snapped  Robertson.  "There  must  be  some- 
thing, somewhere  or  other,  in  your  past  life,  that 
wouldn't  shine  out  to  any  advantage  in  print.  Jim 
Blake  says  no  one  could  be  as  good  as  you  seem  to 
be.  And  he  is  right.  You're  a  man,  like  the  rest  of 
us.  You've  too  much  brains  and  too  broad  shoulders 
and  too  big  a  neck  to  be  a  bloodless  saint.  I'm  go- 
ing to  camp  on  the  trail  of  your  past  performances. 
And  when  I  strike  the  crooked  by-path  I'm  looking 
for,  I'll—" 

72 


THE    CLASH 

"Steady,  Mark!"  warned  Tom.  "That's  no  way 
for  a  white  man  to  talk." 

Mark  Robertson  brushed  aside  the  interruption 
angrily.  But  Standish  was  wholly  unruffled. 

"I  expected  some  such  graceful  attention  from 
the  machine,"  said  he,  "and  I  am  not  in  the  least 
troubled  by  it.  You  are  a  clever  criminal  lawyer, 
Robertson.  But  with  all  your  cleverness  you'll  have 
a  hard  time  dragging  out  any  skeleton  in  my  life, 
between  this  and  to-morrow.  And  after  that,  it  will 
be  too  late.  For  the  Mullins  bill  will  have  been  de- 
feated." 

"Don't  be  too  sure  I  can't  find  the  'skeleton'  m 
time.  I  get  what  I  go  after.  And  I'm  going  after 
you.  I'll  find  that  skeleton  if  it  costs  a  million  dol- 
lars to  do  it.  I'll  find  it  and  drag  it  out  of  its  smug 
hiding-place  and  rattle  it  before  the  whole  grinning 
world.  You've  been  in  too  many  interests  not  to 
have  gotten  your  rake-off  somewhere.  You've 
walked  on  too  many  smooth  places  not  to  have  had 
your  foot  slip  at  least  once.  I'll  find  it.  It's  there 
and  I'll  find  it.  You  say  I'm  a  thief.  Well,  if  I  am, 
then  the  biggest  men  in  this  country  are  thieves." 

73 


THE   WOMAN 

"That  is  the  first  logical  thing  you've  said,"  com- 
mented Standish.  "Robertson,  you're  known  as 
one  of  the  foremost  lawyers  in  New  York.  And, 
like  many  another  great  lawyer,  you're  using  your 
genius  to  rob  the  people.  I  can't  reform  you.  I 
wouldn't  if  I  could.  But  I  can  and  will  reform  the 
conditions  that  make  you  possible.  I  am  already 
doing  that.  When  the  Mullins  bill  comes  up  to- 
night—" 

"Never  mind  all  that.  I  am  not  interested  in  your 
dreams  of  reform.  When  you  first  began  to  block 
our  way  I  warned  you  we'd  drive  you  out  of  politics. 
And  we  will.  You  don't  seem  to  realize  the  mighty 
power  that  is  against  you.  You've  opposed  us  be- 
fore. But  never  against  big  enough  stakes  to  make 
it  worth  our  while  to  turn  the  whole  organization's 
resources  into  the  effort  at  smashing  you.  Now 
that  time's  come.  And  you'll  find  we'll  get  you. 
| We'll  get  you.  It  may  take  time,  but  we'll  do  it." 

Standish's  dark  face  broke  into  a  smile.  The  red 
angry  politician's  threats  seemed  to  strike  within 
the  insurgent  some  genuine  chord  of  merriment. 

"In  that  case,  Governor  Robertson,"  he  said  pleas- 
74 


THE    CLASH 

antly,  "I  advise  you  to  waste  not  one  minute  of  time 
in  setting  to  work.  Because,  though  I've  been  able 
to  upset  several  pet  plans  of  yours  during  the  past 
six  years,  you'll  find  everything  I've  done  to  you 
will  be  as  mere  child's  play  compared  to  what  I'll 
do  as  soon  as  I'm  in  the  speaker's  chair." 

"The  speaker's  chair!"  roared  Mark,  diplomacy, 
caution,  and  even  a  cool  righting  knowledge  thrown 
to  the  four  winds.  "The  speaker's  chair!  You'll 
never  sit  in  it !  Never  in  ten  thousand  years.  Not 
if  I  have  to — " 

"Why,  hello,  boys!"  drawled  a  voice  from  the 
doorway. 

A  man  came  leisurely  down  the  stairs  and  laid  one 
hand  on  Robertson's  arm.  Voice  and  action  were 
calm,  even  pacific.  Yet  they  slammed  shut  the  New 
Yorker's  floodgates  of  wrath  and  left  him  speech- 
less, nervous,  almost  apologetic. 

A  hundred  pairs  of  eyes  from  all  parts  of  the 
long  corridor  turned  as  by  occult  attraction  and 
fixed  themselves  in  wide  interest  upon  the  newcomer. 


CHAPTER  V 

JIM  BLAKE 

THE  man  whose  advent  in  the  Keswick  cor- 
ridor caused  more  attention  among  the  loung- 
ers than  would  the  arrival  of  a  stage  beauty,  had  at 
first  glance  little  about  him  to  justify  such  interest. 
He  was  long  rather  than  tall,  thin  with  a  wiry  com- 
pactness, and  of  a  pleasant  non-committal  face.  His 
age  might  have  been  fifty.  But  a  closer  glance  at  his 
half -shut  eyes  always  gave  an  odd  impression  that 
they  were  fully  a  thousand  years  old.  Perhaps  this 
was  why  Jim  Blake  seldom  opened  them  wide. 

He  had  strolled  in  from  the  foyer  as  if  he  had  not 
a  care  or  an  interest  on  earth.  His  expression  as  he 
had  seen  the  trio  of  men  in  front  of  him  had  be- 
tokened no  excitement.  It  was  the  gaze  of  a  rathef 
bored  man  at  three  casual  acquaintances.  His  dry 
drawling  voice,  too,  had  been  quite  void  of  color. 
Yet  his  greeting  and  his  friendly  touch  on  Robert- 

76 


JIM    BLAKE 

son's  taut  arm  had  been  more  effective  in  quieting 
the  rising  quarrel  than  would  have  been  the  charge 
of  a  police  squad. 

"Hello,  boys,"  repeated  Jim  Blake,  glancing  ge- 
nially and  inexpressively  from  one  to  the  other,  from 
beneath  his  hanging  lids.  "Seemed  to  me  I  smelt 
something  burning.  How  are  you,  Standish? 
What's  up,  Tom?" 

"Why,"  answered  Tom,  vaguely  embarrassed, 
"nothing  very  much.  Just  a  little  political  discus- 
sion." 

"So  I  gathered,"  yawned  Blake.  "Mark,  you 
seemed  to  have  been  supplying  the  fireworks  for  it. 
I  don't  suppose  it  occurred  to  you  that  the  whole 
surrounding  landscape  is  fairly  crawling  with  re- 
porters? Nice  little  story  for  the  morning  papers, 
hey?  'High  Words  Between  Speakership  Aspirants 
in  Kesurick  Lobby'.  And  a  half  column  more  of 
what  you  both  would  have  said  if  you'd  said  what 
the  reporters  thought  maybe  you  might  have  said. 
Fine  business.  Especially  at  this  time." 

"He  called  me—"  burst  forth  Mark. 

"And  you  showed  your  hand?"  hazarded  Blake. 
77 


THE   WOMAN 

"Good  poker,  Mark.  But  punk  politics.  Standish," 
he  went  on,  smiling  benevolently  upon  the  insurgent, 
"you  two  youngsters  put  me  in  mind  of  the  time 
poor  old  Larry  Connor  and  I  were  both  running  for 
sheriff.  Out  in  Chicago.  Back  in  the  eighties.  The 
names  Larry  and  I  called  each  other,  in  public,  dur- 
ing that  hectic  little  campaign  would  have  set  a  canal- 
boat  captain  to  saying  his  prayers.  Real,  juicy, 
man's-size,  far- West  line  of  insults.  Gun-play  talk. 
But  not  one  atom  of  hard  feeling  behind  it.  Not  a 
speck  of  it.  I'd  always  do  Larry  a  good  turn,  on 
the  quiet,  if  I  could,  and  he'd  do  the  same  by  me. 
Then—" 

"If  you  will  excuse  me — "  began  Standish  courte- 
ously. 

But  Blake  did  not  heed  him.  He  had  broken  into 
a  gentle  reminiscent  laugh  like  that  of  a  child  who 
recalls  a  wondrous  Christmas  tree. 

"Poor  old  Larry!"  Blake  rambled  on  amusedly. 
"I  sure  got  the  joke  on  him  before  that  campaign 
was  over.  I  got  the  goods  on  him  and  I  had  him 
sent  to  the  pen  at  Joliet  for  a  full  three-year 
stretch." 


JIM    BLAKE 

"And  that  strikes  you  as  humorous?"  asked  Stand- 
ish  in  disgust. 

"Not  a  bit.  It  won  me  the  election.  That  was 
all.  The  humorous  part  of  it  was  that  no  one  knew, 
but  Larry  and  me,  how  all-fired  near  he  came  to 
sending  me  to  the  pen  instead.  If  the  district  attor- 
ney had  happened  to  be  his  man  instead  of  mine — • 
Oh,  poor  Larry  could  never  get  over  that  part  of  it. 
Just  about  broke  his  heart,  I  guess.  For  he  didn't 
do  a  thing  but  die  before  his  prison  term  was  up. 
Funny,  wasn't  it  ?  When  you  stop  to  think  it  might 
just  as  well  have  been  I,  instead." 

"Screamingly  funny,"  said  Standish  gravely. 
"But  I'm  afraid  we  take  things  a  little  more  seri- 
ously nowadays,  Mr.  Blake." 

"I  know  you  do,"  agreed  Blake.  "That's  why 
you  earnest  young  men — captains  of  industry  and 
reformers  and  other  leaders — never  have  any  appe- 
tites and  why  you  look  sixty  before  you  are  forty. 
And,  speaking  of  appetite,  Mark;  I'm  afraid  we're 
keeping  Mr.  Standish  from  his  dinner." 

"Good  night,"  replied  Standish,  taking  the  broad 
hint  with  no  show  of  feeling. 

79 


THE   WOMAN 

"Good  night — till  the  house  meets  at  ten  o'clock," 
said  Blake.  "I  suppose  you'll  lead  your  gallant  in- 
surgent cohorts  in  person  this  evening?" 

"Yes." 

"Don't  want  to  call  it  off  and  come  into  the  fold 
again,  I  s'pose?"  suggested  Blake  quizzically. 

"No,  thanks,"  smiled  the  insurgent,  and  passed 
on  toward  the  dining-room. 

Jim  Blake  watched  Standish  out  of  ear-shot,  from 
between  drowsy  lids.  But  his  eyes  had  a  queer  little 
glint  in  them  as  he  turned  to  face  Robertson. 

"Now  then,  Mark,"  he  said  with  the  mildly  re- 
proachful air  of  an  overindulgent  teacher  whose  pu- 
pils have  been  caught  skylarking  during  lesson  hours, 
"look  here!  What's  the  sense  of  my  working  my 
hands  to  the  bone  and  thinking  the  hair  off  my  scalp, 
to  boost  you  into  the  speaker's  chair?  What's  the 
use,  I  say,  if  you're  going  to  blow  up  and  make  toad 
pie  of  everything,  the  first  minute  my  back's  turned  ? 
I  gave  you  credit  once  for  having  a  few  grains  of 
political  sense.  But  every  time  you  come  within 
shouting  distance  of  that  man  Standish,  you  make 

80 


JIM    BLAKE 

a  wall-eyed  idiot  of  yourself.    Lord!    I  like  a  good 
criminal,  but  I  sure  hate  a  fool." 

Mark  reddened,  and  he  answered  half  timidly : 
"I  know  it  was  bad  politics.  But  a  man  has  to  be 
human  once  in  a  century.  I  feel  like  running  amuck 
every  time  I  see  Standish.  Besides,"  he  went  on  in 
eager  boyish  self-defense  that  sat  ill  on  his  impos- 
ing personality,  "he's  hurt  you  just  as  much  as 
he's  hurt  me." 

"Quite  so,"  assented  Blake.  "He's  a  clever  boy. 
And  that's  why  you  don't  see  me  scattering  gun- 
powder and  lighted  matches  all  over  the  shop  when  I 
meet  him.  It's  risky.  And  you,  too,  Tom,"  he 
interrupted  himself,  turning  abruptly  pn  his  son, 
"you  stood  by,  I  take  it,  and  never  did  a  thing  to 
stop  Mark.  Haven't  I  brought  you  up  better  than 
to  keep  your  mouth  and  your  hands  out  of  commis- 
sion while  your  own  brother-in-law  is  acting  like  a 
year-old  bull-pup  and  making  hash  of  his  own 
chances  ?  Hey  ?  Oh,  I'll  never  be  able  to  teach  you 
boys  politics.  You'll  both  keep  right  on  disgracing 
me.  There's  nothing  in  the  Bible  about  the  bone- 
Si 


THE   WOMAN 

headedness  of  the  children  being  visited  on  the 
fathers.  And  I  don't  see  why  I  should  have  been 
picked  out  as  the  goat.  Hello,  Van  Dyke !"  he  broke 
off  as  the  lawyer,  with  Neligan  and  Gregg  in  tow, 
came  along  the  corridor  toward  them,  from  the  bar. 
"What  brings  you  to  Washington?  What's  up?" 

"That's  what  I'm  trying  to  find  out,"  answered 
Van  Dyke,  shaking  hands  with  Blake  and  instinct- 
ively leading  the  way  to  the  adjacent  amen  corner. 
"What  is  up  ?  You're  supposed  to  be  managing  this 
fight,  Jim.  And  here  we  find  ourselves  in  the  very 
worst  hole  we've  been  in  since  ninety-seven.  You 
seem  to  have  let  this  Standish  chap  win  every  single 
trick  in  the  game  so  far,  without  so  much  as  playing 
such  cards  as  you  surely  must  have  in  your  hand. 
If  you  and  I  hadn't  fought  shoulder  to  shoulder  for 
years  and  years,  I'd  be  tempted  to  say  you  were 
lying  down." 

Neligan's  brow  knitted.  Even  Robertson  glanced 
wrathfully  at  the  New  York  lawyer  who  dared  ad- 
dress the  mighty  house  leader  as  though  the  latter 
were  a  lazy  office  boy.  Jim  Blake  alone  remained 
quite  undisturbed.  Thoughtfully  he  drew  forth  a 

82 


JIM    BLAKE 

very  long  cigar,  bit  off  its  end,  stuck  it  in  one  corner 
of  his  thin-lipped  mouth,  lighted  it,  shook  out  the 
match,  picked  out  the  most  comfortable  chair  in 
sight  and  lounged  into  it. 

"Yes,"  he  drawled  at  last,  "you  might  say  I  was 
'lying  down'.  But  I  notice  you  don't." 

"Of  course  I  don't,"  agreed  Van  Dyke  with  sus- 
picious eagerness.  "But — but — the  crowd  down  on 
Broadway  doesn't  like  the  way  you've  let  the  house 
get  out  of  control.  And — " 

"The  crowd  down  on  Broadway,"  answered 
Blake,  "have  handed  us  a  raw  proposition  in  this 
Mullins  bill.  The  bill  smells  so  rank  that  even  the 
dear,  dear  public  have  got  a  whiff  of  it.  And  when 
the  public  does  get  its  sense  of  smell  into  good  work- 
ing order — Oh,  what's  the  use,  Van  Dyke  ?  You  can 
see  what  we're  up  against.  You  know  the  temper  of 
the  country.  We  can't  even  defend  that  bill  of 
yours.  And  this  is  no  time  to  put  over  such  a  raw 
one.  It's  like  experimenting  with  gasoline  the  day 
after  your  insurance  has  lapsed.  We'll  have  to  fall 
back  on  talking  about  the  'Grand  Old  Party'  or — " 

"Still,"  argued  Van  Dyke,  "you  said  you'd  be  able 
83 


THE   WOMAN 

to  put  the  deal  through.  And  there's  surely  enough 
in  it  for  us  all." 

"I  said  I  could  put  it  through.  And  I  could—- 
when we  started.  But  Standish  wasn't  fighting  it 
then.  This  isn't  the  Bill  versus  the  People.  It's 
Mat  Standish  versus  the  Organization.  And  Stand- 
ish has  the  people — the  waked-up  people — behind 
him.  He's  their  idol.  He's  the  parsons'  pet.  They 
look  on  him  as  the  Worthy  Young  Man  who  couldn't 
do  wrong  if  he  tried  and  who  isn't  wicked  enough  to 
try.  In  other  words,  he's  never  been  found  out. 
There's  only  two  classes  of  men  that  I  ever  met — 
the  sort  that  have  been  found  out  and  the  sort  that 
haven't.  If  we  can  damage  Standish  in  the  eyes  of 
the  people — if  we  can  make  the  clergy  repudiate 
him—" 

"That's  just  the  point,"  cried  Van  Dyke.  "Why 
haven't  you  been  able  to  do  that,  instead  of  sitting 

peacefully  to  one  side  and  waiting  for  him  to  wreck/ 

i 

himself?  He's  no  fool.  Do  you  expect  him  to  play 
into  your  hands  by  robbing  a  poor-box  or  writing  a 
Black  Hand  letter,  now  while  the  eyes  of  the  whole 
country  are  bulged  out  watching  him?" 

84 


JIM    BLAKE 

"We've  had  detectives  on  him,"  put  in  Neligan. 
"I  told  you  all  that,  Van  Dyke." 

"Detectives?"  snorted  the  lawyer.  "What  good 
is  that  ?  Your  detectives  will  charge  you  seven  dol- 
lars a  day  and  expenses — mostly  expenses — for  giv- 
ing you  a  full  report  of  the  way  Standish  spends  the 
day  and  what  he  has  to  eat  and  the  number  of  cigars 
he  smokes  and  the  addresses  of  some  of  the  letters 
he  writes.  You'll  never  get  Standish  that  way.  If 
ever  he's  broken  a  law — and  most  men  have — " 

"Oh,  not  so  many,"  gently  contradicted  Blake. 
"Two  jails  would  be  plenty  large  to  hold  all  the 
folks  who  have  broken  any  law.  And  the  two 
jails  could  be  built  real  easy — just  by  running  a  high 
wall  around  the  equator.  But  you're  right  in  one 
thing,  Van  Dyke.  We'll  never  get  Standish  in 
the  way  these  boys  have  been  going  about  it.  So, 
it's  lucky  I  happened  to  put  a  man  of  my  own  on 
the  job." 

"What?" 

"Yes.  While  I've  been  'lying  down',  as  you  call 
it." 

"I  didn't  say  you  had  been — " 
85 


THE   WOMAN 

"No.  But  you  thought  it.  Just  because  I  don't 
run  around  in  circles,  barking,  and  now  and  then 
biting  a  piece  out  of  the  ceiling,  you  folks  think  I'm 
doing  nothing.  And  I'll  never  teach  you  any  better." 

"But—" 

"Oh,  yes.  I  put  a  man  of  my  own  on  to  Standish's 
record.  I  told  him  not  to  bother  about  anything  that 
had  happened  during  the  last  three  or  four  years. 
Your  men  would  be  busy  on  that;  and  there'd  be 
nothing  to  find,  anyhow.  Standish  has  been  too 
much  in  the  lime-light  during  that  time.  So  I  set  my 
man  to  scratching  up  ancient  history.  I  told  him  to 
go  back  and  back  and  back,  in  Standish's  record; 
and  to  keep  on  going  back  till  he  found  something." 

"Well?"  chorused  the  others  as  Blake  paused  and 
searched  his  clothes  with  maddening  slowness  for  a 
match. 

"Well,"  drawled  Blake,  "he's  found  it." 

"No?"  chuckled  Neligan,  wildly  elated. 

"Best  news  of  the  year!"  laughed  Robertson, 
gleefully  gripping  his  strong  hands  together. 

"What  was  it?"  demanded  Van  Dyke.  "What 
has  your  man  found  ?" 

86 


JIM    BLAKE 

"He  has  found  the  past,  gentlemen,"  replied 
Blake.  "The  great  and  glorious  if  somewhat  re- 
grettable past.  The  past  is  the  place  where  we've  all 
made  our  mistakes.  And  the  past  is  the  place  to 
look  for  their  record.  It  took  my  man  some  time. 
But  he's  landed  it.  I  didn't  get  the  story  from  him 
till  half  an  hour  ago.  That's  why  I'm  so  late. 
He—" 

"What  has  Standish  done?"  insisted  Van  Dyke. 
"What  is  the  story  ?" 

"The  story  is  long,"  said  Blake;  "but  I  can 
shorten  it  up  considerably  for  you.  Along  about  five 
years  ago  friend  Standish  fell  in  love  with  a  girl. 
Right  sort  of  a  girl,  you  know.  Good  family. 
Father  rich  and  all  that.  Standish  wasn't  very  well- 
off — he  was  always  honest,  you  know.  And  he  and 
she  were  going  to  get  married  on  the  quiet  and  keep 
their  marriage  secret  until— 

"Is  that  all?"  grunted  Van  Dyke  in  dire  disap- 
pointment. "There's  no  campaign  story  in  that." 

"No?  Maybe  there's  one  in  what's  coming.  I 
drew  the  facts  out  of  his  former  secretary.  And  I 
used  hundred-dollar  bills  as  corkscrews  to  do  it.  I'm 

87 


THE   WOMAN 

not  the  sort  of  man  who  spends  perfectly  good  soft 
money  just  to  learn  about  a  three-pictures-to-the- 
page  Robert  Chambers  love  story.  There's  more  to 
come/' 

"Go  on !"  begged  Van  Dyke,  subsiding. 

"She  and  Standish  were  going  to  be  married 
secretly,  just  as  I  told  you.  But  she  had  to  go  to 
Europe.  And  for  some  reason  or  other — the  secre- 
tary didn't  know  why  and  it  doesn't  matter,  anyhow 
— the  wedding  was  sidetracked.  Instead,  they  took 
a  notion  to  run  off  to  a  little  country  hotel,  for  one 
of  those  honeymoons  that — that  never  came  through 
the  custom-house." 

"Nof 

"Yes.  And,  as  an  afterthought,  yes,  again.  I 
can  show  you  the  hotel  register  with — " 

"The  fool  didn't  register  under  his  own  name,  did 
he?"  demanded  Gregg,  from  a  newly-acquired 
worldly  wisdom  which  he  assuredly  had  not  brought 
with  him  from  Kansas. 

"No,"  said  Blake.  "Registered  under  the  name 
of  Fowler.  But  any  handwriting  expert  can  prove 
he  wrote  it,  and  the  hotel  manager  can  swear  Stand- 


JIM    BLAKE 

ish  was  the  man.  The  manager  is  ready  to  swear 
Standish  called  the  woman  his  wife,  too." 

"Oh,  the  jay !"  grinned  Gregg,  the  worldling. 

"You  see,"  went  on  Blake,  "he  really  expected  to 
marry  her.  They  were  just  taking  time  by  the  fore- 
lock. And  then — here's  the  queerest  tangle  of  all — > 
after  that  week  there,  it  seems  she  backed  out  and 
wouldn't  marry  him  at  all.  No,  Gregg,  it  wasn't  he 
that  threw  her  over.  That  happens  in  the  'Town- 
Hall-To-night'  shows,  out  in  Kansas,  I  know.  And 
sometimes,  maybe,  in  real  life.  But  this  was  the 
other  way  around.  The  Woman  jilted  him  and  went 
back  to  her  family.  One  week  of  Standish  was 
about  all  she  was  up  to.  And  she  balked  at  making 
a  life  job  of  it.  I  don't  wonder." 

"But  didn't  her  family  find  out?" 

"It  seems  not.  They  thought  she  had  been  away 
visiting  a  girl  friend  in  the  country.  She  got  home 
safe,  and  everything  looked  proper  as  a  rainy  Sun- 
day in  a  graveyard.  Some  women  sure  have  luck." 

"But,"  asked  Gregg,  "how  did  the  secretary  find 
out?" 

Blake  laughed  indulgently  at  the  artless  question. 
89 


THE    WOMAN 

"Son,"  said  he,  "the  man  who  thinks  he  can  fool 
his  secretary  had  better  try  it  sometime." 

"Go  on,"  urged  Van  Dyke. 

"That's  about  all,"  finished  Blake.  "She  woke 
up,  as  I  told  you,  to  find  it  was  all-a-mistake-and-no- 
harm-done-thank-heaven.  And  as  far  as  I  can 
make  out,  they  haven't  seen  each  other  since.  I 
won't  swear  to  that  part  of  it.  But  if  they  have,  his 
secretary  doesn't  know  it.  Nor — " 

"Who  was  the  Woman  ?"  queried  Robertson. 

"That,"  answered  Blake  reluctantly,  "is  the  one 
thing  left  to  find  out" 

"But,  good  lord!"  exploded  Van  Dyke.  "That's 
the  one  thing  we  must  know.  The  story's  worthless 
without  her  name.  No  one  would  believe  it.  It 
would  sound  like  one  of  the  good  old  political  lies 
that  nobody  listens  to  nowadays." 

"Doesn't  the  secretary  know  who  she  is?"  asked 
JRobertson. 

"He  says  not.  The  correspondence  was  signed 
by  initial  and — " 

"It's  my  opinion,"  said  Gregg  wisely,  "the  secre- 
tary's holding  out  on  you  for  a  bigger  price." 

90 


JIM    BLAKE 

"Price !"  snorted  Blake.  "Not  he.  I  offered  him 
a  price  that  sounded  like  a  page  from  the  history  of 
the  Standard  Oil  Company.  No.  He  doesn't  know." 

Van  Dyke  fairly  groaned. 

"Then,"  he  demanded,  "how  is  this  miserable 
story  going  to  help  us?" 

"Oh,"  replied  Blake,  "the  net's  closing  around 
her.  I  hope  to  have  her  name  to-night." 

"To-night!  We've  got  to  have  it  to-night.  Be- 
fore the  Mullins  bill  comes  up.  The  name's  no  use 
to  us  after  that." 

"But,"  asked  Robertson,  "even  if  we  do  get  it  to- 
night, what  use  can  we  make  of  it?  The  house  will 
be  on  the  final  debate  of  the  bill  by  ten  o'clock.  By 
making  use  of  every  trick  we  know,  we  can  fix  only 
a  few  hours'  delay  at  most.  What  good — ?" 

"What  good?"  retorted  Blake.  "Just  this:  Stand- 
ish's  long  suit  is  morality.  A  lot  of  us  have  had 
smirches  on  our  names  from  time  to  time.  He 
never  has.  So  the  clergy  are  for  him  and  the  people 
swear  by  him.  It's  his  chief  pull  with  both  church 
and  public.  Now — if  we  can  get  this  story,  prop- 
erly authenticated,  on  the  floor  of  the  house  to-night, 


THE   WOMAN 

it'll  give  a  lot  of  men — Gregg,  here,  for  instance — 
an  excuse  to  swing  over  to  us." 

"That's  right!"  cried  Gregg,  in  sudden  compre- 
hension. "My  constituents  can't  expect  me  to  sup- 
port a  man  of  abandoned  moral  character.  If 
Standish  is  really  such  a  blackguard  I'll  be  doing  the 
country  a  service  by  backing  any  bill  he  opposes. 
That's  right.  And  there  are  dozens  of  others  who 
will  see  it  as  I  do.  My,  but  this  takes  a  load  off 
my  mind !  Anybody  got  any  eating  tobacco  ?" 

"It  will  bring  so  many  men  over  to  us,"  continued 
Blake,  unheeding,  "that  we'll  be  strong  enough  to 
force  another  adjournment.  And  during  that  same 
adjournment  we  can  get  this  story  scattered  all  over 
the  country.  It'll  force  Standish  out  of  politics. 
And  then  we  can  pass  the  Mullins  bill  at  our  leisure." 

"You're  right!  You're  always  right!"  approved 
Robertson.  "The  public  won't  stand  for  an  im- 
moral man  leading  a  moral  reform.  I  don't  see  why 
not ;  but  it  won't.  'Conventionality,  that  shrieks  by 
day  at  what  it  does  by  night !'  " 

"The  public  will  let  dyspeptics  cook  its  dinners, 
and  tone-deaf  men  criticize  its  music,  and  failures 

92 


JIM    BLAKE 

write  its  Guides  to  Success,"  supplemented  Blake. 
"But  it  won't  stand  for  its  interests  being  repre- 
sented in  the  government  by  a  man  whose  life  isn't 
a  Christian  Endeavor  tract.  Mention  a  woman's 
name  in  connection  with  a  statesman  and  he  may  as 
well  put  up  the  shutters.  Look  how  the  Mrs.  O'Shea 
story  put  Parnell  out  of  parliament,  and  how  near 
a  dead-and-gone  affair  with  a  woman  came  to  mak- 
ing the  greatest  statesman  since  Lincoln  lose  the 
presidential  election.  Oh,  there  are  hundreds  of 
such  cases.  And  Standish's  will  be  just  one  more. 
People  don't  vote  for  principles.  They  vote  for  per- 
sonalities. We'll  make  Standish  the  laughing-stock 
of  Washington.  He'll  be  driven  so  far  out  of  poli- 
tics that  he'll  discover  a  new  street.  And  all  because 
he  couldn't  foresee  five  years  ago  that  he  might  some 
day  need  to  use  his  past  in  his  business.  The  people 
won't  stand  for  his  leadership  three  minutes  after 
they  learn  about  the  Woman." 

"  'Who  rules  o'er  freemen',"  grandiloquently 
quoted  Gregg  from  his  store  of  hard-learned  cam- 
paign phrases,  "  'should  himself  be  free!' ' 

"  'Who  drives  fat  oxen  should  himself  be  fat'," 
93 


THE   WOMAN 

followed  Blake.  "And  the  man  who  thinks  he's 
planted  his  past  is  likely  some  day  to  acquire  a  fine 
healthy  belief  in  ghosts." 

"Oh,  we've  got  him !  We've  got  him !"  muttered 
Robertson  once  more,  his  usually  quick  mind  loafing 
blissfully  over  the  single  grand  idea. 

"Yes,"  amended  Van  Dyke  dryly,  "we've  got 
him — if  we  can  get  the  Woman's  name  in  time.  It 
all  depends  on  that.  Without  it,  our  story  is  worth- 
less. Thus  far,  it  seems,  no  one  knows  her  name." 

"Except  Standish,"  corrected  Blake. 

"What  good  does  that  do  us?    He  won't  tell." 

"What  one  man  knows,"  returned  Blake  senten- 
tiously,  "another  can  find  out." 

"And,"  put  in  Gregg,  lowering  his  voice,  "speak- 
ing of  'finding  out',  reminds  me.  That  little  devil 
of  a  telephone  girl  over  there —  Do  you  suppose  she 
could  have  heard  anything  we've  been  saying?" 

"If  she  has  a  whole  pair  of  ears,"  answered  Blake, 
sinking  his  own  voice,  "she  surely  could.  Especially 
what  I've  been  saying.  For  I've  been  straining  my 
voice  to  talk  loud  enough  for  her  to  catch  what  I 
said,  ever  since  we  sat  down  here." 

94 


JIM    BLAKE 

"The  deuce  you  have?"  exclaimed  Van  Dyke. 
"What  for?" 

"For  the  same  reason  I've  been  'lying  down'," 
returned  Blake.  "Don't  worry  over  that.  A  man 
whose  voice  is  as  tired  as  mine  isn't  straining  that 
throat  unless  it's  for  a  good  cause.  And  you  can 
leave  the  finding  of  the  Woman's  name  to  me,  too, 
I  guess.  Now  trot  along,  all  of  you.  Mark,  go  in 
and  order  dinner.  I'll  be  there  in  five  minutes.  I've 
a  couple  of  things  to  attend  to  first.  You'll  join 
us,  Neligan?" 

"No,  thanks,  Jim.  I  had  the  best  part  of  dinner 
in  there  at  the  bar  just  now.  And  I'm  content  for  a 
while  to  chew  on  the  good  news  you've  given  us." 

"Yes,"  smiled  Van  Dyke.  "That  is  something  we 
can  get  our  teeth  into.  I  was  beginning  to  think 
Standish  was  really  sound  to  the  core,  as  you  said 
he  was." 

"No  man  is,"  sneered  Robertson.  "At  least  none 
I've  ever  met  in  politics.  This  story  will  make  some 
of  Standish's  preacher  friends  sit  up  and  take  notice, 
I  fancy.  And  if  we  get  the  Mullins  bill  through  the 
house,  the  senate  is  easy." 

95 


THE   WOMAN 

"Yes,"  said  Blake,  "the  senate  is  easy.  But 
it  is  not  on  the  free  list.  The  high  cost  of  living  has 
put  senators  up,  along  with  other  necessaries.  Hey, 
Van  Dyke  ?  They  cut  into  dividends  terribly,  don't 
they?" 

The  group  began  to  drift  across  the  corridor  in 
the  direction  of  the  dining-room.  Blake  detached 
himself  from  the  rest  and  started  back  toward  the 
telephone  switchboard.  But  Tom,  noting  his  fath- 
er's move,  intercepted  him.  The  young  fellow's 
face  looked  worried  and  his  manner  had  lost  some 
of  its  wonted  buoyancy. 

"Dad,"  he  said. 

"Hey?"  asked  Blake,  stopping  and  turning  to- 
ward his  son. 

Reading  Tom's  face,  as  he  was  accustomed  by 
instinct  sto  read  every  countenance  that  came  into 
his  range  of  notice,  Jim  nodded  and  led  the  way  to 
the  amen  corner. 

"Now,  then,"  he  demanded,  half -guy  ingly,  half- 
anxiously,  "what's  on  your  mind?  Speak  up,  son. 
There  never  yet  was  a  delicate  subject  that  wasn't 
the  better  for  getting  aired." 


CHAPTER  VI 

A   FAMILY  ROW 

"^T^HIS— this    story    about    Standish,"— began 

•*-  Tom  uncomfortably;  then  paused  involun- 
tarily as  Blake  leaned  back  with  a  grunt  of  relief. 

"That  all?"  asked  the  father.  "I  was  afraid  I 
was  going  to  get  another  call-down  from  my  wise 
son  on  my  follies  and  sins.  Honestly,  Tom,  I  don't 
know  how  I  ever  got  through  the  first  quarter-cen- 
tury of  my  life  without  your  holy  guidance  and  cor- 
rection." 

"Is  that  quite  necessary?"  said  Tom.  "I  only 
wanted  to  ask  you — " 

"Of  course  you  did.  You  wanted  to  ask  me  some 
question  in  politics.  And  instead  of  being  glad  that 
you  are  beginning  to  show  an  intelligent  interest  in 
my  affairs  at  last,  I  made  fun  of  you.  I'm  sorry, 
son.  I'm  an  old  crank.  Go  ahead  with  your  ques- 
tion. You  were  asking  about  this  Standish  story?" 

"Yes.    I  suppose  it  will  give  us  the  fight." 
97 


THE   WOMAN 

"Looks  that  way  from  where  I  sit,"  replied  Blake. 
"Such  pretty  romances  have  wrecked  many  a  man  as 
strong  as  Standish — and  stronger.  Folks  kind  of 
like  to  show  their  own  goodness  by  denouncing 
things  of  that  sort  and  by  crucifying  men  and 
women — women  especially — who  put  convention- 
ality in  second  place  instead  of  first.  If  a  man  robs 
a  bank  or  a  woman  has  chronic  cleptomania,  the 
world  will  overlook  it  after  a  while.  But  the  \vorld 
never  forgives  or  forgets  when  a  woman  makes  such 
a  break  as  this  girl  of  Standish's  did.  It  forgives 
the  man — as  long  as  he  stays  in  private  life.  But, 
once  let  him  lift  his  head  above  the  crowd  and — 
then  look  out  for  the  moral  brickbats  to  come  a-fly- 
ing !  That's  what's  coming  to  friend  Standish  in  the 
next  few  hours." 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Tom,  almost  shuddering,  "I 
wish  you  wouldn't  do  this  thing." 

"What  thing?"  queried  the  father,  perplexed  at 
his  son's  sudden  vehemence. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  use  blackmail  to  win  your 
fight." 

"Blackmail?"  echoed  Blake  slowly. 
98 


A   FAMILY   ROW 

Then  he  paused.  The  rugged  mask  of  a  .face  had 
not  changed.  But  the  pupils  of  the  half -shut  eyes 
had  suddenly  contracted  as  though  a  blinding  light 
had  been  flashed  before  them.  Yet,  a  second  later, 
when  Blake  spoke  again,  there  was  no  trace  of  pain 
or  resentment  in  his  dry  drawling  voice. 

"Blackmail?"  he  said  once  more.  "How  about 
the  way  Standish  dragged  up  that  franchise  affair 
of  mine  last  year?  What  was  that  but  blackmail?" 

"Well,"  demanded  Tom,  in  the  stark  merciless- 
ness  of  youth,  "you  were  stealing  the  franchise, 
weren't  you,  dad  ?" 

"Yes,"  asserted  Blake  with  a  delightful  absence 
of  all  false  modesty,  "I  sure  was.  And  I  was  do- 
ing it  neatly,  too.  Not  a  ripple,  not  a  kick,  till 
Standish  butted  in  with  his  measly  reformers  and 
queered  the  whole  job  and  cost  us  a  half  million  dol- 
lars. Son,  every  time  I  think  of  that,  I  want  to 
chase  some  one  with  an  ax.  What  in  blazes  is  the 
use  of  a  man's  wasting  time  and  genius  and  cash 
in  framing  up  a  dandy  deal  like  that,  if  a  Hurrah- 
f or- Reform  crowd  is  going  to  sail  in  and  spoil  it  all? 
I  don't  lie  awake  nights  thinking  how  cunning  our 

99 


THE   WOMAN 

friend  Standish  would  look  with  seaweed  in  his 
hair  and  sand  under  his  nails.  But  I  keep  that  fran- 
chise memory  and  a  few  others  fresh  on  the  ice. 
And  it  sure  doesn't  break  my  heart  to  have  a  chance 
now  of  getting  back  at  him." 

"But,"  persisted  Tom,  "that  was  a  public  matter. 
It  doesn't  justify  you  in  dragging  his  private  life 
into  the  lime-light." 

"The  deuce  it  doesn't?  Who  told  you  that?" 

"My  self-respect." 

"Oh!  I  thought  maybe  you  might  have  got  the 
tip  from  some  reliable  source.  Go  ahead,  son. 
Doesn't  justify  me,  hey?" 

"No,  dad,  if  you  want  the  truth,  it  doesn't.  It 
isn't — clean !" 

"Clean  ?  Say,  son,  this  is  politics.  Not  a  prayer- 
meeting.  You've  got  in  the  wrong  pew." 

"If  the  right  pew  justifies  dirty  work  like  that," 
flashed  the  boy,  "I'm  glad  I  have.  And  I  want  to 
stay  there.  This  business  of  making  political  cap- 
ital of  a  man's  dead-and-buried  sins  is  enough  to 
turn  the  stomach  of  a  camel.  A  thousand  times 
more  so  when  one  considers  the  Woman." 

100 


A   FAMILY   ROW 

"Well,"  queried  Blake,  in  high  good  humor,  as 
he  always  was  when  he  could  stir  up  a  quarrel  be- 
tween his  adored  only  son  and  himself.  "What 
'about  her." 

"She's  a  woman.    And — " 

"Sure  she  is.  Did  you  suppose  I  mistook  her  for 
a  Senegambian  chimpanzee?  Of  course  she's  a 
woman.  That's  what  makes  the  story  worth  while." 

"That's  what  makes  the  story  damnable !"  retorted 
Tom.  "Don't  you  understand,  dad?  She  is  a 
woman  and — " 

"So  you  said  before,"  answered  Blake  wearily. 
"To  save  argument,  I'll  waive  all  objections  and  ad- 
mit the  point.  She's  a  woman.  Now  go  ahead. 
What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?" 

"Everything.  She  made  a  fool  of  herself.  Pre- 
sumably when  she  was  young.  She  has  probably 
repented  it  bitterly,  ten  thousand  times.  She  may 
have  atoned  for  what,  she  did.  She  may  even  be  a 
wife  and  mother,  now.  Respected,  loved.  All  the 
world  and  Heaven,  besides,  to  her  husband  and  chil- 
dren. And,  just  to  pass  a  rotten  railroad  bill,  you 
are  going  to  drag  her  out  into  the  glare  of  the  news- 

101 


THE   WOMAN 

paper  world  and  crucify  her!  You  are  going  to 
strip  from  her  her  husband's  love ;  you  are  going  to 
make  her  friends  shun  her  as  an  outcast;  you're 
throwing  black  shame  on  her  innocent  children's 
name.  You  are — " 

"Excuse  me,  son,"  interrupted  Blake.  "But  I'm 
not  doing  a  single  one  of  those  terribly  dramatic 
things.  Standish  is  doing  it — or,  rather,  he  has  done 
it.  Not/.  Catch  the  idea ?  If  Standish  committed 
a  murder  and  I  found  the  body,  would  you  call  me 
a  murderer  ?  Hey  ?  Well,  that's  what  has  happened 
this  time.  When  Standish  took  the  lady  on  that 
little  left-handed  wedding  trip,  five  years  ago  in 
March,  he  rendered  her  liable  to  all  that  and  worse. 
A  man  doesn't  think  of  such  things  at  the  time. 
Neither  does  a  woman,  I  guess.  This  one  sure 
didn't,  or  she'd  never  have  thrown  over  her  one  hope 
of  safety  by  jilting  him." 

"But  that  doesn't—" 

"Doesn't  make  me  any  less  at  fault?  Maybe  so. 
Maybe  not.  I'm  not  losing  sleep  in  worrying.  Say, 
Tom,  that  was  a  great  little  oration  you  just  handed 
me  about  all  the  things  that  are  due  to  happen  to  the 

1 02 


A   FAMILY   ROW 

Woman  when  we  spring  this  story.  I  didn't  make 
any  mistake  in  having  you  study  law.  You  sure  can 
talk  plenty  hectic  when  you  have  to.  Like  a  ten- 
twent-thirt  hero.  Only  louder." 

"You  can  guy  me  all  you  like,"  said  Tom,  flushing 
hotly.  "But  the  fact  remains:  you've  no  right  to 
make  this  unknown  Woman's  heart  a  stepping-stone 
to  your  victory." 

"I'm  not  going  to  'make  this  unknown  Woman's 
heart'  all  those  things.  I'm  going  to  wait  till  I  know 
who  she  is.  And  that's  going  to  be  in  the  next  hour. 
Afterward,  Mr.  Standish  will  take  up  a  graceful  and 
conspicuous  position  in  the  pillory." 

"Oh,  it  is  so  vile — so — !" 

"We  must  take  what  Providence  gives  us," 
smirked  Blake  with  sanctimonious  unction;  adding 
briskly,  "and  be  thankful  to  get  it.  Why,  if  Stand- 
ish licks  us  now,  Tom,  we're  goners.  The  whole 
bunch  of  us.  Why,  boy,  you  don't  realize  how  much 
there  is  to  this  fight!  It's  not  only  the  Mullins  bill 
that's  at  stake.  It's  the  control  of  the  whole  party 
organization.  If  once  Standish  gets  us  going,  we 
might  just  as  well  pack  and  start  back  for  Illinois. 

103 


THE   WOMAN 

It's  good  night  to  my  political  life  and  to  yours,  too, 
Tom.    And  Mark's  and— " 

"Better  go  back  clean  than  stay  here  to — " 

"Oh,  cut  out  the  sentiment !  Save  it  for  the  dis- 
trict attorney's  office  or  for  stump  speeches.  'Go 
back/  hey?  Not  Jim  Blake.  I  haven't  been  a  big 
figure  in  the  house  for  fifteen  years  to  be  licked  by  a 
youngster  like  Standish.  Blackmail,  is  it?  In  poli- 
tics, all  is  fair — and  then  some.  If  you  don't  think 
so,  drop  out.  The  organization  papers  won't  exactly 
go  into  mourning  borders  for  your  loss,  sonny." 

"Listen,  dad,"  returned  Tom,  choking  back  a  hot 
answer.  "Ever  since  you  brought  me  here  into  the 
thick  of  the  fight,  you  and  I  haven't  agreed  about 
politics.  But  I've  stood  with  you,  through  and 
through.  I've  worked  hard  for  the  party,  because  I 
felt  I  was  working  for  you.  But — well — this  time 
I'd  rather  be  working  for  the  other  side.  Because  I 
believe  they're  right  and  we  are  wrong/' 

"Well,  then,"  blazed  his  father,  in  a  dry  gust  of 
unwonted  wrath,  "why  don't  you  work  for  the  other 
side  ?  Go  ahead !  It's  no  great  loss  to  us." 

104 


A    FAMILY    ROW 

"You  know  perfectly  well  why  I  don't.  It's  be- 
cause you  are  on  this  side — the  wrong  side  just 
now." 

"Go  over  to  them !"  snapped  Blake,  his  rare  anger 
still  unspent.  "They'd  be  glad  enough  to  get  you. 
Not  that  you'd  be  worth  a  hoot  in  hell  to  them  in 
actual  value.  But  the  fact  that  you're  the  worthy 
son  of  your  unworthy  blackmailing  father  would 
make  you  welcome.  Go  ahead!  Lord,  but  I  won- 
der what  I  ever  did  in  the  old  days  to  be  punished  by 
having  a  canting  reformer  for  a  son !  This  is  what 
I  get  for  putting  you  in  the  district  attorney's  office 
and  trying  to  make  a  he-man  of  you  and —  Well, 
why  don't  you  go  over  to  them?" 

"Because,"  answered  Tom,  growing  cooler  in 
ratio  to  his  father's  increasing  heat,  "only  because 
I'd  be  fighting  against  you,  dad.  And  I'd  sooner  be 
at  your  side  in  a  crooked  game  than  against  you  in  a 
straight  one.  You  know  what  I  think  of  machine 
politics.  And  when  I  go  over  to  the  other  side,  I 
want  you  to  come  with  me." 

"Me?"  shrilled  Blake,  aghast.     "Me?    Want  me 

105 


THE   WOMAN 

to  work  against  the  old  party?  Why,  boy,  if  you 
had  a  little  more  sense  you'd  be  half-witted.  The 
party's  been  father  and  mother  to  me.  And  when  I 
leave  the  party,  I'll— I'll  take  it  with  me." 

"You  might  just  as  well,"  observed  Tom.  "It 
seems  to  belong  to  you  all  right.  It  must,  when  you 
can  make  it  stand  for  this — this — " 

'  'Blackmail'  was  the  word  you  used,  I  think/* 
supplied  Blake,  as  his  son  hesitated.  "  'Blackmail* 
was  the  word.  And  'dirty  work'  and — " 

"Dad!  I—" 

"Oh,  don't  hesitate!"  laughed  Blake  mirthlessly. 
"I'm  only  your  father." 

"Don't!"  begged  Tom.  "Oh,  dad,  why  do  you 
and  I  always  get  into  a  scrap  every  time  we  try  to 
talk  seriously?  You  pretend  to  think  I'm  a  fool. 
But  at  heart  you  know  I'm  not.  And  I  get  riled  at 
the  things  you  say.  But,  deep  inside,  I  know  you're 
the  dandiest  whitest  father  that  ever  came  down  the 
pike.  We're  fonder  of  each  other,  in  a  way,  than 
either  of  us  is  of  any  one  else.  Yet,  we  always 
quarrel,  at  the  drop  of  the  hat.  I  wonder  why." 

"I  s'pose,"  replied  Blake,  touched  more  deeply 
1 06 


A   FAMILY   ROW 

than  he  dared  show,  yet  too  stubborn  to  let  so  goodly 
a  supply  of  paternal  anger  be  dissipated  all  at  once, 
"I  s'pose  it's  because  I'm  too  old  or  too  stupid  to 
learn  the  new  fashion  of  having  children  instruct 
their  parents  what  to  do  and  what  not  to  do." 

"Just  as  you  say,"  answered  Tom  with  a  philo- 
sophic shrug  of  the  shoulders.  "Good  night." 

"Where  are  you  off  to,  now?"  grunted  Blake  in- 
differently, albeit  there  was  a  glint  of  wistfulness  in 
the  half-shut,  steely  old  eyes. 

"To  the  club.  To  dinner,"  said  Tom,  moving 
away. 

"To  the  club,  hey?"  growled  Blake,  detaining 
him.  "Huh!  Afraid  it'll  hurt  your  spotless  repu- 
tation to  be  seen  dining  here  with  a  'blackmailer'  ?" 
"You  have  a  positive  genius  for  choosing  the 
rottenest,  most  disagreeable  thing  to  say,"  remarked 
Tom;  and  there  was  a  note  of  hurt  in  his  voice  that 
somehow  reached  the  far-hidden  and  tortuous  re- 
cesses where  Jim  Blake's  battered  old  heart  was 
supposed  to  be. 

"Well,"  vouchsafed  the  father  grumpily,  "maybe 
that  was  just  a  trifle  swift.  Look  here,  lad,"  he 

107 


THE   WOMAN 

went  on,  a  soft,  almost  tender  tone  creeping  into  his 
dry  voice,  as  he  laid  his  hand  on  Tom's  shoulder, 
"I'm  the  only  father  you've  got.  And  you  may  as 
well  make  the  best  of  it." 

"You're  the  only  father  I  want,  dad.    But — " 

"There!  There!"  hastily  admonished  Blake. 
"Don't  go  spoiling  it  with  'huts' !  You  know  what 
you  are  to  me,  boy.  I  guess  I  don't  need  to 
get  mush-headed  and  try  to  tell  you.  And — and," 
he  repeated,  hiding  his  momentary  tenderness  under 
a  cloud  of  made-to-order  impatience,  "that's  why  I 
hate  to  see  you  loading  up  your  alleged  brain  with 
these  fool  ideas  about — " 

"Let  it  go  at  that,  dad,"  laughed  Tom. 

"Oh,  all  right.  I  will,  if  you  like.  And  you'll 
stay  to  dinner  ?" 

"Why,  of  course,"  quickly  assented  Tom. 

"That's  better,"  approved  Blake.  "Now,  run  in 
and  start  with  Mark.  I'll  be  with  you  in  a  minute  or 
two.  And — say — if  Mark  and  I  should  get  to  talk- 
ing politics  at  dinner — " 

"Don't  worry,"  returned  Tom,  smiling.  "I'm 
getting  quite  used  to  my  muzzle.  But  Mark  won't 

1 08 


A   FAMILY   ROW 

be  as  likely  to  be  wrapped  up  in  politics  as  he  usu- 
ally is.  Grace  is  coming  down." 

"No!"  cried  Blake,  his  face  alight  with  pleasure. 
"Good  for  her!  When?" 

"At  eight  o'clock.  But  she  didn't  bother  to  men- 
tion whether  it  was  eight  this  evening  or  eight  to- 
morrow morning.  Mark  was  just  going  to  call  her 
up  on  long  distance  to  find  out,  when  we  happened 
to  meet  Standish.  And  I  suppose  the  prospect  of  a 
clash  with  Standish  quite  drove  a  minor  matter  like 
his  wife  out  of  his  thoughts." 

"You're  wrong  there,"  dissented  Blake.  "There's 
nothing  on  earth  can  drive  Grace  out  of  Mark  Rob- 
ertson's head.  He's  as  crazy  in  love  with  her  as  he 
was  the  day  he  married  her.  If  he  didn't  telephone 
her  before  he  went  in  to  dinner  it's  a  cinch  he'll  do 
it  the  minute  he  comes  out.  He  wouldn't  miss  the 
chance  of  meeting  her  at  the  train  for  a  small  for- 
tune. Queer  old  Mark !  Grace  is  the  one  thing  that 
makes  him  human.  Chase  on  in,  and  order  for  me." 

Dismissing  his  son  with  a  slap  on  the  shoulder, 
Blake  strode  across  to  the  telephone  alcove.  Wanda 

109 


THE   WOMAN 

Kelly  looked  up  inquiringly  from  the  novel  she  was 
reading  between  telephone  calls. 

"Miss  Kelly,"  said  Jim,  "will  you  kindly  connect 
me  with  the  hotel  office  ?" 

He  sprawled  into  a  vacant  seat  at  her  side,  caught 
up  the  extra  receiver  and  called : 

"That  the  office?  Perry?  Hello,  Perry.  This  is 
Blake.  Jim  Blake.  Yes.  In  two  minutes  I  want 
you  to  send  word  to  Mr.  Standish  that  he's  wanted 
on  the  phone  here.  Yes.  Here.  Not  in  his  room. 
Here  at  the  phone  booths.  Fix  it  any  way  you  like. 
Only  get  him  here  inside  of  five  minutes.  No,  no! 
Do  as  I  say,  I  tell  you.  Good-by." 

He  hung  up  the  receiver,  rose  and  stood  lounging 
against  the  rail,  looking  down  at  Wanda  from  be- 
tween his  half -closed  lids. 

"Now,  then,  Miss  Kelly,"  he  began  abruptly. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Blake  ?"  she  interrogated  as  he  paused. 


F° 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE   TRAP 

R  a  moment   Blake  did  not  answer.     Nor 


**-  could  Wanda  read  anything  from  his  utterly 
expressionless  face.  Then  he  said : 

"Do  you  know  why  I  did  that?" 

"Probably,"  replied  Wanda  gravely,  "because 
you  wanted  Mr.  Standish  to  come  here." 

He  eyed  her  searchingly.  But  her  face  gave  no 
sign  that  her  reply  had  been  intended  as  imperti- 
nence. She  was  looking  up  at  him  with  an  inno- 
cence that  any  one  better  acquainted  with  Wanda 
Kelly  would  have  recognized  as  quite  preternatural. 

"H'm !"  he  vouchsafed.    "You're  a  bright  girl." , 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  she  replied  demurely. 

Again  he  glanced  at  her  moveless  features  in 
quick  doubt.  Then,  evidently  making  up  his  mind, 
he  went  on : 

"You  heard  the  story  I  was  telling  those  men 
in 


THE   WOMAN 

over  there?  The  story  about  Standish  and  the 
Woman?" 

"I — I  happened  to  catch  part  of  it." 

"You  happened  to  catch  every  word  of  it,"  he 
corrected.  "And  now,  why  do  you  suppose  I  told 
such  an  all-important  secret  loud  enough  for  a  tele- 
phone girl  to  hear  it  ?" 

"That's  just  what  I've  been  wondering,"  she  said 
frankly.  "But  I  can't  figure  it  out." 

"Then  I'll  tell  you,"  retorted  Blake,  nodding  ap- 
proval at  her  unembarrassed  candor.  "What's  the 
one  thing  we  need  to  turn  that  story  from  a  windy 
piece  of  campaign  gossip  into  the  deadliest  weapon 
ever  forged  in  Washington?" 

"The  Woman's  name,"  replied  Wanda,  at  once. 

"Good!"  applauded  Blake.  "You've  got  a  real 
brain  under  that  metal  receiver  you  wear.  You 
seem  to  have  this  situation  worked  out  as  clear  as  I 
have.  Maybe,  now,  you  can  guess  what  that  Wom- 
an's name  is  worth  to  us.  How  about  it  ?" 

Wanda  rolled  her  big  eyes  ceilingward  after  the 
manner  of  a  stupid  child  who  seeks  in  space  the  an- 
swer to  a  teacher's  question. 

112 


THE   TRAP 

"Maybe — maybe  a — a  million  dollars,"  she  haz- 
arded timidly,  at  length. 

Blake  grinned  appreciation  of  the  bit  of  acting, 
and  was  not  in  the  very  least  deceived  by  it — as 
Wanda  had  perfectly  well  known  he  would  not  be. 

"Nothing  stingy  about  your  ideas,  young  lady!" 
he  commented.  "Maybe  I'd  better  put  them  straight. 
Do  you  want  to  make  a  hundred  dollars  ?" 

"A  hundred  dollars?"  she  echoed  in  a  wide-eyed 
wonder  of  innocence  that  Saint  Cecelia  at  her  best 
could  not  possibly  have  equaled.  "A  whole  hun- 
dred dollars?  Why,  how  could  a  poor  telephone 
operator  like  me  make  so  much  money  ?" 

Again  Blake's  eyes  narrowed.  And  again  the 
grim  smile  twitched  his  lip  corners. 

"How  could  you  make  so  much?"  he  repeated. 
"In  the  easiest  way  in  the  world.  Just  by  telling  me 
a  phone  number  that  you  hear." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Blake!"  protested  Wanda,  indescrib- 
ably shocked.  "Is  it  possible  you  don't  know  it's 
against  the  rules  of  the  company  to  tell —  ?" 

"No,"  he  snapped.  "It  isn't  possible  I  don't  know. 
And  it  isn't  possible  I  don't  know  that  ten  hello 


THE   WOMAN 

girls  out  of  eight  break  that  rule  a  dozen  times  a 
day.  I  want  to  get  a  certain  telephone  number." 

Wanda  reached  uncertainly  for  the  telephone  di- 
rectory that  hung  beside  her.  Then,  apparently 
seeing  she  had  misunderstood  Blake,  she  looked  up 
again  with  a  helpless  little  laugh. 

"You'll  have  to  be  a  bit  plainer,  Mr.  Blake,"  said 
she.  "I  don't  quite  understand." 

"Here's  the  idea,"  replied  Blake,  wearying  of 
matching  a  cudgel  against  a  hatpin,  and  coming 
straight  to  the  pith  of  the  matter.  "I've  sent  for 
Standish  to  come  here  because  I  want  to  have  a  talk 
with  him.  When  I'm  through,  I'll  go  away.  And 
the  chances  are  that  he'll  go  straight  to  the  telephone 
and  call  up  some  one.  It's  that  'some  one's'  number 
I  want." 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Wanda,  smiling  brightly  at  her 
own  comprehension.  "And  that's  worth  a  hundred 
dollars?" 

"Yes.  And  if  you  can  hear  what  he  says  on  the 
phone  I'll  make  it  two  hundred." 

For  an  instant  the  innocent  wondering  smile 
114 


THE   TRAP 

again  illumined  Wanda's  upturned  face.  Then,  like 
Blake,  she  evidently  wearied  of  futile  word-fencing, 
for  she  said,  incisively : 

"I  see.  I've  got  the  idea.  You'll  spring  this  story 
of  the  Woman  on  him.  You'll  make  him  think 
you've  almost  got  her  in  your  net.  You'll  try  to 
scare  him  into  hustling  to  the  nearest  telephone  and 
warning  her.  He'll  know  you're  having  him 
watched.  So  he  won't  dare  to  go  to  her  in  person 
with  his  warning  or  send  her  a  letter.  He's  got  too 
much  sense  for  that.  And  a  telegram  would  be  too 
risky.  So  nothing's  left  but  the  phone.  He'll  call 
her  up.  You'll  get  the  number.  And  then  it'll  be  a 
cinch  for  your  men  to  find  the  Woman's  name  in  no 
time,  and  all  about  her.  The  full  story — names  and 
all — can  be  circulated  on  the  floor  as  soon  as  the 
house  sits,  to-night.  And  good-by  then  to  Mr. 
Standish." 

"Say!"  drawled  Blake  in  genuine  admiration. 
"You've  sure  got  a  brain.  We'll  have  to  get  you  in 
the  secret  service.  Or,  if  you  want  a  job  in  my  office 
at  double  what  you're  getting  here — but  we  can  talk 
about  all  that  afterward.  Will — ?" 


THE   WOMAN 

"Oh !"  pleaded  Wanda  with  a  bewildering  return 
to  her  former  sweet  innocence.  "Can't  we  talk 
about  it  now?" 

"No !"  rapped  out  Blake.  "We  can't  There's  no 
time.  He'll  be  here  any  minute.  Will  you  do  what 
I  ask?" 

"You're  sure  the  number  will  give  you  the  clue  to 
the  Woman?5' 

"Absolutely." 

"And  don't  you  think  one  little  hundred  dollars  is 
a  pretty  cheap  price  to  pay  for  information  that  will 
bring  you  millions  ?" 

Sheer  innocence  had  reached  its  towering  acme — ' 
the  summit  whereon  rests  pure  wisdom.  Blake  re- 
garded the  girl  from  under  his  bushy  brows.  But 
her  face,  in  its  different  way,  was  as  unreadable  as 
his  own. 

"Well?"  he  demanded,  "if  a  'whole  hundred  dol- 
lars' has  shrunk  so  quickly  into  a  'little  hundred 
dollars,'  what  price  strikes  you  as  fair?" 

"Let's  see!"  pondered  innocence's  fair  apostle, 
"how  about  ten  thousand  dollars?" 

"Ten  thousand  dollars?"  shouted  Blake,  thrown 
116 


THE    TRAP 

for  once  off  his  monumental  balance.  "Are  you 
crazy?" 

"My  head  has  felt  a  little  queer  sometimes,"  she 
confided,  "but  I've  always  supposed  it  was  from  sit- 
ting so  close  to  the  amen  corner.  Maybe  if  I  went 
to  a  doctor — " 

"Ten  thousand  dollars!"  repeated  Blake.  "Rot! 
Ten  thousand  dollars  for — for  one  measly  telephone 
number!" 

"No!"  contradicted  Wanda,  and  her  voice  and 
face  were  like  chilled  steel,  "for  a  victory  that  saves 
your  leadership  of  the  machine,  that  puts  your  son- 
in-law  in  the  speaker's  chair,  that  smashes  your 
enemy  and  that  means  millions  of  dollars  to  you! 
That's  what  the  telephone  number  means  to  you, 
Mr.  Blake.  That  and  a  man's  career — a  woman's 
shame — a  girl's  self-respect.  Throw  all  that  into 
the  balance  and  the  price  won't  look  so  fancy." 

"You're  rating  self-respect  pretty  high,"  retorted 
Blake,  though  rather  pleased  than  otherwise  by  her 
quick  grasp  of  the  situation.  "I  could  buy  half  a 
state  legislature  for  ten  thousand  dollars." 

"Perhaps  you  could.  You  ought  to  know.  But  if 
117 


THE   WOMAN 

you  want  me  to  be  your  spy,  you  must  pay  me  spy's 
wages.  And  such  spies  as  Wanda  Kelly  aren't  on 
the  free  list,  Mr.  Blake,  any  more  than  senators  are. 
The  work  is  well  worth  ten  thousand  dollars — and 
more." 

"My  dear  young  lady,"  counseled  Blake  with  his 
most  fatherly  air,  "believe  me  when  I  warn  you 
that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  being  just  a  trifle  too  am- 
bitious. Women  don't  realize  that.  But  it's  so. 
And  that's  why  women  have  never  got  far  in 
politics.  Still,  there's  no  time  to  argue.  Standish 
ought  to  be  here  by  now.  Shall  we  say  a  thousand 
dollars?" 

"I — I'll  have  to  think  it  over,"  said  Wanda  con- 
fusedly. "And,  anyway,"  she  added,  "there's  no  use 
making  a  price  till  I've  got  what  you  want,  is  there? 
Besides,"  with  an  easy  lapse  into  sweet  innocence, 
"Mr.  Standish  seems  to  be  such  a  nice  man.  It's  a 
pity  to — " 

"Oh,  he's  a  nice  man,"  laughed  Blake.  "Hell's 
full  of  'nice  men'.  But  there's  no  time,  now,  to 
haggle  about  prices.  You  get  that  number  for  me, 
and  you  won't  lose  by  it.  And  every  word  you  can 

118 


THE   TRAP 

overhear  is  worth  a  three-carat  diamond.  Steady, 
there!  He's  coming." 

Standish  came  toward  the  switchboard,  from  the 
dining-room  whither  a  page  had  at  last  tracked  him. 
He  saw  a  most  unruffled  telephone  girl  absorbed  in 
a  novel.  Jim  Blake  was  leaning  negligently  against 
the  switchboard  rail,  looking  with  dreamy  half -shut 
eyes  along  the  nearly-deserted  corridor.  Standish 
hurried  across  to  Wanda. 

"Some  one  wants  me  on  the  phone?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  drawled  Blake,  before  the  girl  could  reply. 
"Some  one  wants  you  over  there  in  the  amen  corner 
for  a  minute  or  two,  if  you  can  spare  the  time.  I 
took  the  liberty  of  sending  that  message  about  your 
being  wanted  pn  the  phone,  because,"  leading  the 
way  to  the  amen  corner,  "I  have  a  matter  of  private 
business  to  talk  over  with  you." 

"Private  business?"  echoed  the  puzzled  Standish, 
instinctively  following  Blake  to  the  corner.  "Pri- 
vate business?  Between  you  and  me?" 

"Quite  so,"  assented  Blake,  "although  I  s'pose  I 
shouldn't  be  talking  to  you  about  this.  I  don't  know 
what  the  boys  would  say  if  they  knew  I  was  blab- 

119 


THE   WOMAN 

bing,"  he  continued  guiltily.  "But — oh,  hang  it  all, 
you're  a  decent  sort  of  chap,  Standish,  if  you  do 
happen  to  be  a  rank  insurgent !  And  I  don't  want  to 
ruin  any  man's  life  without  giving  him  at  least  a 
chance  to  save  himself.  Lord,  but  Jim  Blake's  soft- 
ening as  old  age  comes  on!  And  the  softening 
seems  to  have  begun  at  the  top.  Have  a  cigar?" 

"No,  thanks,"  declined  Standish  curtly.  "Will 
you  please  explain  why  you  have  sent  for  me  ?" 

Blake  looked  at  him  with  gentle  pity,  then  shook 
his  head. 

"My  boy,"  said  he,  "the  game  is  up." 

"Please  be  more  explicit.  I  don't  care  for  mys- 
teries." 

"The  game  is  up,"  repeated  Blake.  "The  whole 
show  is  over.  We've  found  out  all  about  that  pretty 
little  affair  of  five  years  ago." 

"What  affair?"  asked  Standish,  unmoved.  "Please 
explain.  My  time  is  limited." 

"If  you're  referring  to  your  time  in  politics,  it  is. 
It  ends  to-night.  There !  There !  Don't  get  huffy. 
You've  got  nerve  all  right.  I  grant  you  that. 
'What  affair',  hey  ?  Why,  the  affair  with  the  Woman 

1 20 


THE   TRAP 

whom  you  registered  as  your  wife,  under  the  name 
of  Fowler,  at  a  country  hotel  up  in  New  York  state. 
That's  all.  Hardly  worth  mentioning,  hey?" 

As  he  had  talked,  Blake  had  let  his  gaze  wander 
over  the  ceiling,  the  walls — anywhere  except  at 
Matthew  Standish.  Yet  he  had  missed  not  one  de- 
tail of  the  younger  man's  expression.  There  was 
nothing,  however,  to  be  read  in  that  expression. 
Standish's  heavy  face  was  mask-like,  blank,  save  for 
a  faint  tinge  of  polite  bewilderment. 

But  Blake  was  far  too  wise  a  reader  of  men  to  go 
by  the  sign  in  a  face.  He  let  his  mildly  wandering 
glance  shift,  as  if  by  accident,  to  Standish's  hands. 
They  were  tight-clenched.  So  tight  that  the  knuckles 
showed  white  from  the  convulsive  pressure. 

"Another  campaign  yarn,"  smiled  Standish,  and 
his  voice  was  as  inexpressive  as  his  face.  "Isn't  it 
rather  old-fashioned  to  spring  lies  of  that  sort?  The 
public  doesn't  stand  for  them  nowadays.  Proofs 
are  needed." 

"Really?"  drawled  Blake.  "Why,  Standish,  some- 
times your  knowledge  of  up-to-date  conditions  sim- 
ply dazzles  me.  That's  what  it  does.  Dazzles  me." 

121 


THE   WOMAN 

"And  now — "  pursued  Standish,  turning  to  go. 

"And  now,"  echoed  Blake,  "we've  got  you  with 
the  goods.  Don't  bluff,  man.  No  bluff  ever  won  a 
penny  after  the  cards  were  laid  face  upward.  And 
they're  face  upward  now.  You  know  what  I  mean. 
And  you  know  we've  got  you  dead  to  rights.  Five 
years  ago  you  spent  a  week  with  a  woman  at  a  hotel 
whose  proprietor  can  and  will  identify  you.  Any 
expert  can  swear  that  the  registered  name,  'Fowler,' 
is  in  your  handwriting.  It  was  in  March.  Congress 
was  still  in  session.  But  you  gave  out  word  that 
you'd  gone  to  the  mountains  to  rest.  We've  got  the 
dates.  We've  got  every  fact  proved.  Man,  can't  you 
see  I'm  trying  to  help  you  ?  Give  me  a  chance  to." 

Standish,  his  face  still  a  mask,  was  staring  at  the 
floor.  At  last  he  raised  his  eyes — the  dark  tired 
eyes  in  whose  depths  Self  and  Love  and  Happiness 
had  so  long  age  burned  out.  And,  turning  to  Blake, 
he  said  evenly : 

"So  you  have  dug  all  that  up,  have  you  ?  I  might 
have  expected  it.  In  fact  I  have  expected  it.  But  it 
hasn't  worried  me.  Because  you  can't  harm  me  with 
such  a  story." 

122 


THE    TRAP 

"No?"  asked  Blake,  with  real  interest.  "Why 
not?" 

"You  know  perfectly  well  why  not,"  answered 
Standish,  "the  story  won't  amount  to  the  paper  you 
would  print  it  on  unless  you  can  supply  the  name 
of  the  Woman.  And  you  can't  do  that" 

"Are  you  so  sure." 

"Perfectly,"  said  Standish. 

And,  Blake,  a  little  to  his  own  wonder,  noticed 
that  Standish's  hands  were  now  lying  loose  and  that 
there  was  no  sign  of  tension  in  his  somewhat  un- 
gainly frame. 

"What  makes  you  think  we  can't  supply  the  Wom- 
an's name?"  demanded  Blake.  "What  makes  you 
think  we  haven't  found  her?" 

"Because,"  began  Standish ;  then  he  checked  him- 
seif  and  said  somewhat  lamely,  "because — I  have 
good  reasons  for  knowing  you  haven't." 

"H'm !  Still  keep  as  close  in  touch  with  her  as  all 
that  ?  Mark's  detectives  must  be  foolish-house  grad- 
uates. Well,  I'll  admit  we  haven't  found  her — yet. 
But  we  will  before  midnight.  You  left  some  pretty 
easy  clues  and  they're  being  followed.  That's  the 


THE   WOMAN 

trouble  with  a  man  who  has  something  to  hide.  He'll 
lock  and  double-bar  nine  doors  to  discovery;  and 
leave  the  tenth  wide  open  with  a  'Welcome'  sign 
over  it.    And  that's  just  what  you  did.    I  was  a 
trifle  late  in  striking  the  trail.    Otherwise  I'd  have 
headed  you  off,  before.    But  by  twelve  o'clock  to- 
night we'll  have  her.    Why,  son,"  he  went  on,  not- 
ing Standish's  half-smile  of  incredulity,  "if  I  wasn't 
dead  sure  of  getting  her,  would  I  be  such  a  fool  as  to 
tell  you  all  this?    And  whatever  else  Jim  Blake's 
been  called,  no  one's  yet  tied  'fool'  to  his  name.    I 
tell  you  once  more,  we'll  have  her  name  by  mid- 
night at  the  very  latest.  Of  course  she  doesn't  know 
we're  tracking  her,"  he  continued,  chuckling  as  at 
his  own  shrewdness.   "I've  seen  to  it  that  she  hasn't 
the  slightest  suspicion.    And  that  makes  our  work 
all  the  easier.    She  doesn't  know.    And  there's  no 
one  to  warn  her.    It's  a  cinch !" 

His  voice  trailed  off  into  a  self-satisfied  laugh. 
Nor  was  the  laugh  wholly  assumed.  For  he  sa\v 
Standish's  hands  slowly  clench  again.  And  a  few 
beads  of  sweat  were  beginning  to  show  themselves 
upon  the  insurgent's  forehead. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  TRAP  IS  SPRUNG 

THERE  was  a  pause.  Neither  man  seemed  de- 
sirous to  be  first  to  return  to  the  attack.  The 
buzz  of  the  city  crept  in  from  outside.  The  half- 
stifled  rhythm  of  the  dining-room  orchestra  reached 
them  in  snatches. 

"H'lo !"  droned  Wanda  Kelly  at  the  switchboard. 
"Yes'm.  It's  seven  twenty-four.  Yes'm.  No. 
That's  right.  Western  Union  time.  Yes'm.  It's 
too  bad  your  watch  has  stopped.  Yes.  They  do 
sometimes,  I  know.  Especially  if  they  don't  get 
wound  up.  I'm  sure  you're  welcome." 

Standish  got  to  his  feet;  slowly  and  more  like  a 
very  old  man  than  one  in  his  prime.  But  he  looked 
down  with  crass  stolidity  at  his  tormentor.  And  in 
his  deep  tones  there  was  more  of  sorrow  than  of 
nervous  dread. 

"Mr.  Blake,"  he  said,  "there's  one  point  I  can't 
125 


THE    WOMAN 

quite  grasp.  Even  your  admiration  for  my  worthy 
qualities  and  your  very  kind  desire  to  save  me 
trouble,  can  not  wholly  explain  your  action  in  telling 
me.  Why  are  you  giving  away  your  hand  like  this  ?" 

Blake  looked  pained. 

"Can't  a  man  do  a  decent  thing  for  once,"  he 
grumbled,  "without  having  his  motives  picked 
apart?" 

"I'm  afraid  not — in  your  case,"  answered  Stand- 
ish. 

"All  right,"  agreed  Blake  in  no  whit  chagrined. 
"Let's  look  at  it  from  a  business  standpoint,  then. 
If  you'll  decide  suddenly  to  let  this  Mullins  bill  pass, 
and  if  you'll  support  Mark  Robertson  for  the  speak- 
ership,  everything  will  be  perfectly  smooth  and  har- 
monious. And  we  won't  have  to  use  these  painful 
means — " 

"Oh,  I  see.    A  bargain?" 

"One  that  you  won't  lose  by,"  said  Blake.  "A 
mighty  good  one,  since  it  saves  you  your  political 
skin,  instead  of  forcing  us  to  nail  it  to  the  barn." 

"But,"  argued  Standish,  "what  explanation  could 
I  give,  for — " 

126 


THE   TRAP    IS    SPRUNG 

"That's  up  to  you.  There  are  a  dozen  ways  out. 
Get  sick  if  you  like.  The  country's  fairly  buzzing 
with  doctors  who'll  be  glad  to  give  you  a  certificate 
for  anything  from  gastralgia  to  housemaid's  knee. 
That's  what  doctors  are  for.  Lots  of  men  have 
changed  their  views  overnight.  You  can  fix  up  a 
good  slick  water-proof  excuse,  easy  enough." 

Standish  did  not  answer.  Blake,  feeling  victory 
less  near  than  he  had  hoped,  put  on  the  screws. 

"Standish,"  said  he,  "I'd  just  naturally  hate  to 
use  this  story.  But  I'm  afraid  we've  got  to.  It's 
eat  or  be  eaten.  And  I  always  like  to  be  on  the  chair 
side  of  the  dinner.  This  disgrace  will  put  you  down 
and  out  forever,  after  all  your  cant  about  high 
morals,  and  the  preachers  holding  you  up  as  a  holy 
example  to  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  boys,  and  all  that.  Oh, 
it'll  be  a  sweet-scented  situation  for  you,  all  right, 
all  right!" 

Despite  his  confidence  Blake  was  vaguely  wor- 
ried. He  knew  men,  as  a  pianist  knows  his  key- 
board. And  now  a  subtle  intuition,  quite  at  variance 
with  all  his  keen  logic,  warned  him  that  Standish 
was  not  in  the  least  frightened  by  the  threat  of  po- 

127 


THE   WOMAN 

litical  death.  Knowing  the  insurgent's  high  ambi- 
tions as  he  did,  Blake  could  not  account  for  this 
absence  of  terror.  So,  feeling  his  way,  he  shifted  to 
the  other  tack. 

"The  Woman,  too,"  he  added.    "Think  of  her!" 

He  grinned  under  his  sparse  mustache.  For  again 
he  saw  Standish's  hands  clench.  And  he  knew  he 
had  struck  the  one  right  note. 

"Yes,"  went  on  Blake.  "Think  of  the  Woman ! 
She's  walking  blindly,  unsuspectingly,  right  straight 
into  the  trap  we've  set  for  her.  It'll  be  hell  for  her. 
Pure,  unadulterated,  sky-blue  hell.  If  she's  got  a 
husband  or  kids  or  parents  it'll  blacken  the  whole 
world  for  them  all.  Oh,  don't  make  us  do  this 
thing,  man!  Think  it  over.  Don't  decide  in  a  rush. 
Take  your  time.  By  eleven  o'clock  or  so  I'll  have 
her  name.  Then  it  will  be  early  enough  for  you  to 
tell  me  your  decision.  You'll  find  me  somewhere 
about  the  hotel,  if  I'm  not  over  at  the  Capitol.  Good- 
by." 

"One  moment!"  protested  Standish.  "How  do 
I  know  there's  a  chance  of  your  finding  the  Woman 
you  speak  of?  How  do  I  know  this  boast  that  you're 

128 


THE   TRAP    IS    SPRUNG 

on  her  trail  is  just  a  trick  to  make  me  think  you 
know  more  than  you  do?  I've  nothing  but  your 
word  for  it.  And — you'll  pardon  me,  I'm  sure — the 
collateral  isn't  quite  good  enough." 

Blake  smiled  in  apologetic  patronage  as  might  a 
master-magician  who  is  asked  by  a  bumpkin  to  ex- 
plain his  choicest  conjuring  feats. 

"Well,  now,  old  man,"  he  answered,  laughing 
amusedly,  "you  really  don't  expect  me  to  give  the 
whole  snap  away,  do  you  ?  Not  much.  If  you  knew 
what  our  trap  is  you  might  spring  it  prematurely 
and  give  the  poor  mouse  a  chance  to  get  away  before 
she  nibbled  at  our  bait.  No,  no.  I'll  leave  all  that 
to  your  good  sense.  You  know  me.  And  if  you 
don't  think  I  can  make  good,  of  course  that's  your 
own  affair.  There's  nothing  in  it  for  me,  to  come 
and  warn  you  like  this.  I  don't  like  to  think  what 
the  boys  would  say  if  they  knew  I'd  done  it  They 
were  all  for  leaving  you  in  the  dark.  But  I  said: 
'No,  I'm  no  measly  virgin,  myself.  It  might  have 
happened  to  almost  any  one.  I'm  going  to  give  the 
boy  his  chance.'  And  I've  done  it.  Take  it  or  leave 
it.  I'm  too  tender-hearted,  anyway,  to  be  a  good 

129 


THE   WOMAN 

politician.  But  I  always  feel  better  for  having  done 
a  kindness.  Even  to  an  enemy.  By-by.  I  hope 
I  haven't  spoiled  your  appetite." 

He  strolled  off  toward  the  dining-room.  As  he 
passed  Wanda  he  glanced  covertly  at  her  through 
his  lowered  lids.  She  was  raptly  absorbed  in  the 
novel  she  was  reading.  And  her  dainty  lower  jaw 
moved  slowly  up  and  down  in  a  gum-chewing  ca- 
dence that  bespoke  years  of  practise. 

Standish  watched  Blake  out  of  sight.  His  face, 
now  that  the  mask  was  no  longer  needful,  worked 
almost  grotesquely.  And  his  swarthy  skin  was  a 
pallid  yellow.  He  looked  like  a  pugilist  who  tries 
dazedly  to  rise  after  a  knock-out. 

He  was  thinking  rapidly ;  despite  his  daze.  After 
a  moment  or  two  he  crossed  hastily  to  the  telephone 
switchboard. 

"Get  me  a  New  York  wire,  please/'  he  said,  look- 
ing nervously  down  the  corridor,  "as  quickly  as  you 
can." 

As  he  spoke  he  was  running  over  the  pages  of  one 
of  the  telephone  books  on  the  desk.  Wanda  drove 
a  plug  into  the  switchboard  and  droned : 

130 


THE   TRAP    IS    SPRUNG 

"H'lo !  Long  distance  ?  That  you,  Jessie  ?  This 
is  Wanda.  Say,  get  me  a  New  York  wire — on  the 
jump,  please.  Yes.  Oh,  have  you?  Good!  Let 
the  other  party  wait,  and  give  it  to  me,  won't  you  ? 
Thanks.  I've  got  one  already,"  she  added,  glancing 
over  her  shoulder  at  Standish.  "What  number, 
please?" 

"One  thousand  and  one,  Plaza,"  he  answered, 
looking  up  from  the  directory. 

"Plaza,  one — o — o — one!"  she  droned  into  the 
transmitter.  "Any  name,  Mr.  Standish  ?" 

"No,"  he  answered  huskily.  "Just  the  number." 

"A'ri !  Here  you  are — number  one  booth,  please. 
H'lo  New  York!"  she  continued  into  the  transmit- 
ter, shoving  a  plug  in  and  out  of  the  switchboard 
three  or  four  times,  "Plaza  one — o — o — one.  Yes, 
Plaza  one— o—o — ONE!" 

Standish  had  gone  to  the  first  of  the  numbered 
booths.  At  its  door  he  paused. 

"Miss  Kelly,"  said  he,  "would  you  mind  taking 
that  receiver  off  your  head  while  I'm  telephoning?" 

"Certainly,"  she  answered  in  evident  ill-temper 
at  the  slur  implied  by  the  request. 


THE   WOMAN 

She  carefully  removed  and  hung  up  the  metal 
crescent  that  held  the  receiver  to  her  left  ear.  Then 
she  raised  both  hands  to  make  certain  the  removal 
had  not  mussed  her  hair.  Standish  had  closed  the 
booth  door  and,  from  the  corner  of  her  eye,  Wanda 
could  see  him  through  the  glass  pane,  speaking  into 
the  transmitter.  But  she  had  barely  noted  the  first 
movement  of  his  lips  when  Blake  and  Mark  Robert- 
son appeared  from  the  dining-room.  She  turned  her 
attention  to  them. 

Blake  glanced  unobtrusively  toward  the  row  of' 
telephone  booths  and  his  half -shut  eyes  lighted  ever 
so  little  as  he  made  out  Standish's  figure  behind  the 
glass.  But  he  made  no  other  sign  that  he  noted  the 
successful  springing  of  the  trap  he  had  so  painstak- 
ingly set.  In  fact,  he  was  talking  interestedly  to 
Robertson  on  indifferent  topics. 

"Tom  tells  me,"  Wanda  heard  him  say,  "that 
Grace  is  coming  down." 

"Yes,"  answered  Robertson,  his  face  brightening 
at  mention  of  his  wife's  name,  "either  to-night  or 
to-morrow  morning.  And  that  reminds  me:  I 
meant  to  call  her  up  and  ask  which.  I  want  to  meet 

132 


THE   TRAP    IS    SPRUNG 

her  at  the  station.     Miss  Kelly,"  he  went  on,  "can 
you  get  me  a  New  York  wire  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Wanda ;  "but  it'll  take  a  few  min- 
utes to  get  the  connection." 

"All  right,"  replied  Robertson,  as  she  busied  her- 
self amid  the  labyrinth  of  switchboard  plugs,  "I'll 
wait  here  for  it.  I — " 

He  stopped  as  Standish  came  out  of  the  booth  and 
laid  down  a  bill  for  Wanda  to  change.  Robertson, 
the  happy  light  of  anticipation  dying  out  of  his  face 
at  sight  of  his  foe,  turned  his  back  ostentatiously 
upon  him.  Nor  did  he  speak  again  till  Standish  had 
gone  away.  Then  he  looked  around,  to  find  his 
father-in-law  in  eager  conversation  with  the  tele- 
phone operator. 

"Well,"  Blake  was  saying.  "Could  you  hear  any- 
thing?" 

"No,"  answered  Wanda,  still  deeply  offended  at 
Standish's  request.  "Not  a  word.  He  made  me 
hang  up  the  receiver." 

"Huh!"  grunted  Blake.  "He's  got  more  sense 
than  I  thought.  But  the  number?  You  got  the 
number,  of  course.  Didn't  you?" 

133 


THE   WOMAN 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  returned,  "I  got  the  number,  all 
right." 

Blake  unceremoniously  reached  over  the  rail  and 
picked  up  the  pad  on  which  a  list  of  numbers  was 
jotted  down. 

"Is  that  the  one?"  he  asked,  pointing  to  tho  last 
number  inscribed  there. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Wanda,  recovering  her  pad  and 
laying  it  back  in  its  place  on  the  desk,  with  a  little 
slam  to  emphasize  Blake's  rudeness  in  taking  it 
away.  "That  isn't  the  one.  I'm  leaving  the  line 
blank,  so  I  can  fill  in  the  number  later.  It's  too 
valuable  to  put  on  paper — just  yet." 

"You're  a  born  diplomat,"  he  approved,  a  trifle 
grudgingly.  "Well,  what  was  the  number  ?" 

"Just  a  minute,"  she  interrupted.  "Wasn't  there  a 
question  of — of — ?" 

"Of  a  thousand  dollars  for  you.  Yes,  there  was. 
That  goes." 

"Does  it?"  she  queried  sweetly.  "Not  with  -me, 
k  doesn't." 

"Look  here,  young  woman!"  snarled  Blake,  his 
habitual  calm  giving  place  to  a  sort  of  vulpine  sav- 

134 


THE   TRAP    IS    SPRUNG 

agery.  "Don't  you  try  to  hold  me  up!  If  you  do 
you'll  find  you've  got  a  wildcat  by  the  tail." 

"Dear  me !"  she  cried  in  pretty  terror.  "Well,  I'll 
— I'll  have  to  think  it  over.  Here's  your  New  York 
wire,  Governor  Robertson,"  she  called  to  Mark. 
"What  was  the  number  you  wanted,  please  ?" 

Robertson  came  across  to  the  rail. 

"Get  Mrs.  Robertson — my  wife — on  the  phone," 
said  he.  "If  she's  not  in,  get  one  of  the  servants. 
I—" 

"You  didn't  tell  me  the  number,"  she  reminded 
him. 

"Oh,"  he  laughed.  "Careless  of  me !  I  forgot  I 
wasn't  talking  to  my  secretary.  He  generally  calls 
up  .ny  New  York  home  for  me.  The  number  is 
''.-^aza  one — double  o — one'." 

There  was  an  imperceptible  pause.  A  momentary 
contraction  of  Wanda's  throat.  Then,  in  her  ever- 
lasting professional  monotone  she  droned  into  the 

receiver : 

« 

"H'lo!     New  York?     Plaza  one—o—o — one!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

A  LION  IN  A  RABBIT  TRAP 

ARK    hurried    into    the    nearest    telephone 
booth.     Wanda  stared  after  him,  in  scared 
fascination.     Her  face  had  turned  oddly  white. 

"One — o — o — one,"  she  repeated  to  herself,  daz- 
edly, as  she  mechanically  jotted  down  the  number  on 
her  pad. 

"Now  then!"  Jim  Blake  was  demanding  at  her 
elbow,  "you  and  I  will  settle  this  thing,  my  girl.  I 
want  that  number !" 

"The  one  Governor  Robertson  just  called  up?" 
she  faltered,  unconsciously  sparring  for  time  in 
which  to  readjust  the  dizzy  whirl  of  her  ideas 
around  the  one  central  theme  that  had  leaped  into 
her  mind. 

"No.  The  number  Standish  called  up.  The  num- 
ber of  the  Woman  whose  name  I'm  after!"  snarled 
Blake.  "What  is  it?  Out  with  it,  girl!" 

136 


A   LION   IN    A    RABBIT    TRAP 

"Oh,"  laughed  Wanda,  nearer  to  hysterics  than 
ever  before  in  her  life,  "I — I  couldn't  give  away  a 
number,  Mr.  Blake.  It's  against  the  rules,  you 
know.  I  was  only  joking  about  the  money,  and — " 

"Joking!"  mocked  Blake.  "Well,  you'll  find  it's  the 
painfulest,  costliest  joke  you  ever  played,  my  young 
friend !  If  it's  a  joke,  then  the  joke  will  be  on  you." 

"But—"  she  pleaded. 

"You've  got  a  bit  of  knowledge  that  we  need — 
and  need  damned  bad.  A  bit  of  knowledge  we've  got 
to  have — and  mean  to  have.  Understand  that  ?  And 
what  we've  got  to  get,  we  get.  Now,  is  it  fight  or 
not?  Will  you  take  the  money  I've  offered  you  or 
will  you  run  your  silly  young  head  into  the  hottest 
bunch  of  trouble  a  girl  ever  met  with?  Which'll  it 
be?  Speak  out!" 

"I — I  don't  know.  It'll  disgrace  the  Woman, 
won't  it,  if  I  tell?" 

"It'll  smash  you  if  you  don't!  What  is  it  to  you 
if  she's  disgraced  or  not?" 

"That's  so,"  purred  Wanda,  suddenly  recovering 
her  shattered  nerves.  "What  is  it  to  me — or  to  you 
— if  she's  destroyed,  so  long  as  the  machine  wins? 

137 


THE   WOMAN 

And    it'd    be    perfectly    terrible    if    the    machine 
shouldn't  win.    Now  wouldn't  it?" 

"It'll  be  terrible  for  any  one  who  tries  to  block  it," 
retorte«4  Blake,  grim  and  wrathful. 

"Well,"  sighed  Wanda  distractedly,  "I'll  just 
have  to  think  it  over  very  carefully.  Of  course,  I 
like  you,  Mr.  Blake.  I've  always  admired  you  a  lot. 
You've  got  such  a  lovely  personality  and — " 

"Drop  that !"  he  roared. 

"And,"  pursued  Wanda,  "I've  always  admired 
the  machine  a  lot,  too.  It  does  things  in  such  a  busi- 
nesslike way.  But — but,  of  course,  I  couldn't  really 
take  money  from  you.  If  I  tell  that  number  it'll 
just  be  because  I  want  you  to  win.  That's  all.  Just 
because  I  want  to  see  you  win." 

"That's  better !"  grunted  Blake,  his  face  clearing. 
"You  won't  be  sorry." 

"You  bet  I  won't !"  she  retorted,  and  her  young 
voice  was  as  keen  as  a  knife  blade,  and  as  hard.  "I 
won't  be  one  bit  sorry.  And  my  conscience  will  be 
clear.  It'll  be  a  load  off  my  shoulders.  But,"  she 
ended,  falling  back  on  indecision,  "I — I  must  think 
it  over  a  while." 

138 


A   LION    IN    A    RABBIT    TRAP 

"A  while?"  echoed  Blake.  "There's  no  time  to 
lose.  You  understand  the  situation.  I've  made  it 
all  clear  to  you.  If  I  don't  get  that  Woman's  name 
before  the  Mullins  bill  comes  up  for  a  vote  it  will  be 
of  no  use  to  me.  And  we'll  lose.  I  must  know  the 
name  to-night.  I — " 

"I'll  make  up  my  mind  to-night,"  answered 
Wanda  cryptically ;  and  she  returned  to  her  novel. 

Blake  glared  at  her  in  angry  doubt.  Before  he 
could  speak  again,  Robertson  came  out  of  the  booth. 

"I  must  be  off,"  said  Mark.  "My  butler  says 
Grace  took  the  train  that's  due  to  reach  Washington 
at  eight  this  evening.  I've  no  time  to  waste  if  I'm 
to  be  at  the  station  when  it  comes  in." 

He  hurried  off.  After  a  second  glance  toward 
the  utterly  oblivious  Wanda,  Blake  followed  him 
from  the  corridor.  Wanda  did  not  look  up.  Her 
eyes  were  still  bent  eagerly  on  her  book.  But  the 
type  was  a  twisting  blur  to  her  senses.  To  herself 
she  was  murmuring  disjointedly : 

"His  own  daughter — Mark  Robertson's  wife — 
Tom's  sister — !  And  Jim  Blake  moving  heaven  and 
earth  and  a  quarter-section  of  hell,  too,  to  get  her 

139 


THE    WOMAN 

name  for  a  campaign  scandal.  If  I  give  it  to  him, 
I  guess  a  big  part  of  father's  debt  to  the  machine 
will  be  paid  off.  If—" 

"Hello !"  called  Tom,  crossing  the  corridor  from 
the  dining-room.  "What  are  you  reading?  By  the 
way  you  stare  at  that  book  it  must  have  all  the  best 
sellers  looking  like  the  Congressional  Record. 
What's  it  about  ?" 

She  raised  a  blank  drawn  face  to  him. 

"About?"  she  repeated  absently.  "Oh,  it's — it's 
about  a  man  who  set  a  trap  for  a  rabbit — and  caught 
a  lion  in  it." 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  GENTLE  ART  OF  FILIBUSTERING 

THE  house  of  representatives  sat  at  ten  that 
night.  The  reporters'  gallery,  up  behind  the 
speaker's  chair,  was  jammed.  In  the  visitors'  gal- 
lery, across  the  way,  a  close-packed  eager  throng 
peered  down  into  the  political  amphitheater  below. 

For,  as  every  newspaper  had  heralded,  this  was  to 
be  a  night  of  battle.  And  the  eagles  of  the  press, 
together  with  the  vultures  of  the  sensation-loving 
outer  world,  had  flocked  to  the  slaughter. 

Yet  to  an  unlearned  observer,  the  spectacle  would 
not  have  been  inspiring.  Here,  in  brief,  is  the  scene 
such  an  outsider  would  have  witnessed  and  the  im- 
pressions he  would  have  drawn  therefrom  had  a 
wiser  man  been  at  his  side  to  whisper  an  occasional 
needful  explanation: 

A  great  desk-filled  room,  wherein  lounged  a 
crowd  of  men  ranging  in  years  from  youth  to 
gnarled  age.  A  sprinkling  of  the  delegates  were  in 

141 


THE   WOMAN 

evening  dress,  having  come  from  dinners  or  other 
functions.  More  were  in  frock  suits.  But  the  ma- 
jority were  in  street  attire.  This  latter  form  of  cos- 
tume varied  from  the  artist-  tailor's  product  on  some 
urban  representative  to  the  very  palpable  "This- 
Nobby-Style-$i4.5o"  garb  of  the  backwoods  dele- 
gate. 

A  few  men  were  poring  over  the  sheafs  of  printed 
bills  at  their  desks.  Many  were  gathered  in  knots 
of  three  or  four,  talking  earnestly.  Others  sprawled 
back  in  their  chairs  palpably  bored.  One  or  two 
would  have  had  trouble  in  convincing  any  jury  as 
to  their  complete  sobriety.  A  hum  of  talk  neither 
profound  nor  elevating  rose  to  the  galleries. 

Then  a  few  moments  after  the  stroke  of  ten,  the 
speaker  appeared  from  his  office  and  mounted  to  his 
desk.  Neligan  and  one  or  two  others  who  had  ac- 
companied him  into  the  room,  slouched  to  their 
seats.  The  speaker  smote  the  desk  with  his  hard- 
worked  gavel  and  announced,  nasally: 

"The  house  will  be  in  order!" 

There  was  a  leisurely  breaking  up  of  groups  and 
a  straying  back  to  desks. 

142 


THE   ART    OF    FILIBUSTERING 

"The  clerk  will  call  the  roll  of  the  house!"  con- 
tinued the  speaker. 

The  clerk  therewith  proceeded  to  rattle  off,  at  a 
great  rate,  the  roll  of  the  members.  Frequently  a 
member — and  always,  in  the  case  of  a  first-year  man 
— responded  to  his  name.  But  many  paid  no  heed 
whatever  to  the  call. 

"The  fun  is  going  to  begin  in  a  minute,"  said  an 
old  Washingtonian  in  the  gallery  to  a  rural  guest 
whose  ignorance  of  matters  parliamentary  was  pro- 
found. "Here's  the  idea:  that  Mullins  bill  I  told 
you  about,  is  due  to  come  to  a  vote  to-night.  Stand- 
ish  and  his  insurgents  are  strong  enough  to  defeat 
it  now.  And  the  machine  men  know  it.  That's  why 
they're  going  to  try  to  put  off  the  vote,  every  way 
they  can.  Filibustering,  you  know.  There  are  lots 
of  ways.  And  you're  likely  to  hear  all  of  them.  The 
speaker  is  in  with  the  machine  and  he'll  recognize 
any  one  who  rises  to  stave  off  the  vote.  They  may 
drag  it  on  all  night,  with  his  help.  The  clerk  over 
there  is  a  machine  man,  too.  He'll  do  his  share. 
Wait  and  see  how." 

The  clerk  had  finished  buzzing  his  version  of  the 
143 


THE   WOMAN 

members'  names  and  habitats.  Scarcely  had  he  done 
so  when  Neligan  was  on  his  feet,  "caught  the  speak- 
er's eye,"  was  duly  "recognized",  and  forthwith 
begged  to  call  the  chair's  attention  to  the  fact  that 
there  was  not  a  quorum  present. 

"But  the  place  is  nearly  full !"  whispered  the  old 
Washingtonian's  guest. 

"The  filibustering  is  on,"  answered  his  mentor. 
"There  are  enough  members  here.  Any  one  can  see 
that.  But  a  good  many  didn't  bother  to  answer  the 
roll.  Most  of  those  were  machine  men,  of  course. 
Listen!" 

There  was  a  crash  of  bells  throughout  the  ante- 
rooms and  halls.  A  count  had  been  made  of  the  roll. 
And  now  swift  and  loud  summonses  were  flashed 
into  committee  rooms.  Pages  rushed  through  cor- 
ridors, lounging-rooms  and  restaurant,  squalling: 
"Call  of  the  house !  Roll-call!  Roll-call!  Call  of 
the  house !" 

From  everywhere  members  poured  into  the  room. 
Some  were  yawning,  some  were  wiping  their 
mouths,  some  finishing  a  heated  dispute.  They 
drifted  to  their  seats.  Another  calling  of  the  roll — 

144 


THE    ART    OF    FILIBUSTERING 

much  more  slowly  this  time — and  a  prompt  answer 
from  every  one. 

But  the  attention  of  the  ignorant  one  wandered. 
A  nudge  from  his  Washington  host  brought  it  back 
again,  as  the  speaker  announced  a  little  later : 

"The  house  will  proceed  to  the  consideration  of 
the  bill  of  the  house  of  representatives,  number 
99,999,945." 

"That's  the  Mullins  bill,"  the  Washingtonian  in- 
formed his  guest. 

"The  bill,"  continued  the  speaker,  "is  before  the 
house  for  the  third  reading." 

A  half  score  men  were  on  their  feet,  as  he  ceased. 
But,  foremost  in  the  throng  was  Matthew  Standish. 
He  had  left  his  seat  and  had  strode  into  the  semi- 
circular space  in  front  of  the  speaker's  desk.  The 
speaker  was  forced  to  recognize  him  and  did  so,  a 
trifle  grudgingly,  it  appeared  to  the  ignorant  one. 

Standish  moved,  in  curt  formal  phrase,  that  the 
bill  be  read  "by  title" ;  in  order  to  save  the  house  the 
fatigue  of  listening  to  a  thirty-minute  perusal  of  it 
by  the  clerk. 

"The  gentleman  from  New  Jersey,"  said  the 
145 


THE   WOMAN 

speaker,  "moves  that  the  bill  be  read  by  title.  Are 
there  any  objections?" 

There  were  objections.  There  were,  in  fact,  so 
many  and  such  vociferous  objections  that  for  a  space 
the  United  States  House  of  Representatives  might 
have  been  supposed  to  be  practising  for  the  Roman 
mob  scene  in  Julius  C&sar.  The  machine  men 
were  fairly  howling  objections.  To  gather  from  the 
objectors'  manner  it  was  apparent  none  of  them  had 
so  much  as  heard  of  the  Mullins  bill ;  and,  as  defend- 
ers and  wise  builders  of  the  nation's  laws,  they  evi- 
dently had  no  intention  of  committing  themselves 
to  a  vote  on  a  bill  of  whose  contents  they  were  so 
starkly  ignorant. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  the  Washingtonian  was  ex- 
plaining to  the  ignorant  one,  "every  man  of  'em  has 
read  and  reread  that  bill  fifty  times  and  heard  it  dis- 
cussed and  pulled  to  pieces  and  tacked  together 
again.  They  could  repeat  it  by  heart.  And,  even  if 
they  couldn't,  there's  a  complete  printed  copy  of  it 
on  each  man's  desk." 

As  the  tumultuous  demand  for  enlightenment  died 
down,  the  speaker  instructed  the  clerk  to  read  the 

146 


THE   ART    OF    FILIBUSTERING 

bill.  The  clerk  obeyed,  reading  slowly  and  with  a 
beautiful  precision.  But  no  one  gave  his  reading 
the  heed  that  its  excellence  merited.  No  sooner  had 
he  begun  a  perusal  of  the  bill's  first  clause,  than  men 
began  to  leave  the  room. 

A  number  of  the  departing  members  were  the 
men  who  had  yelled  the  loudest  and  most  insistently 
that  the  bill  be  read.  Out  they  strolled.  And  pres- 
ently, through  the  doorways  of  the  adjacent  loung- 
ing-rooms,  wreaths  of  tobacco  smoke  floated  in. 

The  speaker  himself  left  his  place,  beckoned  to 
several  adherents  and  vanished  with  them  into  his 
office.  Among  the  members  who  were  left  in  the 
room,  some  read  letters,  some  scribbled  notes  or 
memoranda  and  some  talked  together  in  tones  that 
were  not  over-low. 

"Delays  the  vote  by  half  an  hour,"  interpreted  the 
Washingtonian  as  the  ignorant  one  looked  on  in 
horror  at  such  seeming  boorishness  on  the  part  of 
his  country's  representatives. 

At  length  the  dreary  task  of  reading  was  accom- 
plished. And  the  members  returned  to  their  places. 

The  next  outburst  came  from  the  insurgents  who 
147 


THE    WOMAN 

broke  into  a  vociferous  shout  of  "Question!  Ques- 
tion!" 

"That  means,"  whispered  the  Washingtonian, 
"they  want  to  bring  the  bill  to  a  vote  right  away." 

The  speaker,  after  a  gavel  solo  on  his  desk,  hark- 
ened  to  the  cry  and  announced  that  the  bill  would 
forthwith  be  brought  to  a  vote.  Instantly  Tim  Neli- 
gan  was  on  his  feet.  And  with  equal  promptness 
the  speaker  recognized  him. 

"I  move  the  house  now  adjourn !"  said  Neligan. 

"A  motion  to  adjourn,"  translated  the  Washing- 
tonian, "is  always  in  order  and  never  debatable.  One 
of  the  best  of  all  filibustering  tactics." 

But  the  ignorant  one  did  not  hear  him.  At  once, 
on  Neligan's  words  had  followed  an  uproar  that 
drowned  all  lesser  sounds.  The  insurgents  were 
voicing  their  protest  against  the  motion.  And  some 
of  them,  perhaps  not  trusting  to  the  power  of  their 
lungs,  eked  out  the  racket  by  beating  their  fists  thun- 
derously upon  their  desks.  The  babel  was  punctu- 
ated by  weary  and  perfunctory  raps  of  the  speaker's 
gavel  and  by  his  totally  unemotional  calls  for  order. 

148 


THE    ART    OF    FILIBUSTERING 

In  the  midst  of  the  turmoil  the  motion  to  adjourn 
was  seconded. 

.  .  .  "Moved  and  seconded,"  the  ignorant  one 
heard  disjbintedly,  ".  .  .  in  favor  .  .  .  aye." 

A  bellow  of  "ayes"  shook  the  room,  each  machine 
man  trying  to  swell  the  volume  of  assent  into  the 
semblance  of  a  larger  number  of  voices. 

At  the  call  for  negative  opinion,  a  mighty  and  in- 
dignant "No !"  showed  even  to  the  ignorant  one  the 
disposition  of  the  house  and  the  strength  of  the  in- 
surgents. Nor  could  the  speaker  himself  ignore  the 
superiority  of  numbers. 

"The  'noes'  seem  to  have  it,"  he  ventured  as  if  still 
in  doubt. 

He  got  no  further.  All  previous  vocal  and  desk- 
banging  efforts  had  been  as  nothing  by  comparison 
to  the  tempest  of  indignant  protest  that  now  rose 
from  the  machine  members  at  hearing  such  an  opin- 
ion from  the  chair. 

When  the  gavel  and  exhaustion  had  combined  to 
calm  the  first  storm  of  noise,  Standish  (who,  with 
a  dozen  or  more  excited  gesticulating  men,  was  in 

149 


THE    WOMAN 

the  open  space  in  front  of  the  desks)  caught  the 
speaker's  eye,  and  requested  a  "rising  vote". 

The  "ayes"  were  accordingly  bidden  to  rise.  And 
while  the  clerks  did  the  actual  counting  of  the  stand- 
ing machine  men,  the  speaker  pointed  the  leveled 
handle  of  his  gavel  at  one  man  after  another  as 
though  making  a  personal  tally  of  the  score. 

The  same  proceedings  followed  when  the  "noes" 
— a  palpably  larger  number — arose. 

"On  the  motion  to  adjourn,"  declared  the  speaker, 
when  the  count  was  complete,  "one  hundred  and 
twenty-one  in  favor.  Two  hundred  and  thirty-eight 
oppose.  The  'noes'  have  it." 

Neligan  was  on  his  feet,  clamoring  for  recogni- 
tion. He  received  it  with  the  customary  prompti- 
tude, and  demanded  a  "vote  by  tellers".  The  house 
laughed  its  appreciation. 

"That  means,"  construed  the  Washingtonian, 
"that  the  chair  will  appoint  one  teller  from  each  fac- 
tion and  that  the  ayes  and  noes  will  have  to  file,  one 
crowd  after  the  other,  like  a  bread  line,  between  the 
tellers.  As  they  pass  by,  the  tellers  will  bring  down 
their  hands  between  every  two  men  and  count  them 


THE    ART    OF    FILIBUSTERING 

off.  And  the  machine  crowd  won't  move  any  too 
fast,  either;  as  you'll  see." 

"But  what's  the  use  of  it  all?"  demanded  the 
ignorant  one.  "It  sounds  idiotic  to  me." 

"It's  already  put  off  the  vote  by  a  full  hour," 
said  the  Washingtonian.  "And  the  machine's  got 
other  tactics  just  as  good.  Long-winded  speeches, 
for  instance.  And,  remember,  a  motion  to  adjourn 
is  always  in  order.  It  can  be  made  a  dozen  times  in 
a  day,  if  the  speaker  will  stand  for  it.  And  he  will, 
to-night.  Then  the  same  old  proceedings  have  to  be 
gone  over  with  each  time.  Good  fun,  isn't  it  ?" 

"Yes,"  muttered  the  ignorant  one,  "about  as 
sprightly  sport  for  onlookers  as  reading  a  page  of 
the  city  directory.  What's  up  now?" 

The  tedious  "vote  by  tellers"  was  at  last  over. 
And  the  result,  as  every  one  had  foreseen,  tallied 
precisely  with  that  of  the  former  count.  Whereat, 
another  of  Blake's  mouthpieces  demanded  a  "call  of 
the  house  on  the  motion  to  adjourn."  There  was 
another  rattling  of  desks  accompanied  by  howls. 

The  speaker  intoned  his  useless  command  for 
order  and  thumped  rhythmically  with  his  gavel. 


THE   WOMAN 

When  quiet  again  settled  down,  the  clerk  obediently 
reread  the  long  roll-call.  He  read  it  with  irritating 
slowness ;  then  read  the  names  of '  the  absentees. 
After  which  the  speaker  formally  declared  that  the 
motion  to  adjourn  was  lost. 

The  ignorant  one,  battling  with  sleepiness,  heard 
him  ask  : 

"What   .    .    .    pleasure  of    ...    house?" 

Standish  took  the  floor  and  offered  a  motion  that 
debate  on  the  bill  be  limited  to  one  hour.  More  up- 
roar, opposition,  and  interminable  delay  in  ascer- 
taining the  "pleasure  of  the  house". 

But  before  the  debate  could  be  instituted,  another 
machine  man  voiced  the  alluringly  original  motion 
to  adjourn.  And  once  more  the  previous  dreary  per- 
formance, sanctioned  by  parliamentary  law,  was  en- 
acted. 

Standish,  by  infinite  patience,  at  last  brought  the 
house  back  to  the  verge  of  debate  when  a  large  and 
preternaturally  solemn  wheel-horse  of  the  machine 
lifted  himself  to  his  feet.  Far  back  in  the  crowd  as 
he  was,  he  had  the  miraculous  good  fortune  to  catch 
the  speaker's  eye  before  he  was  half  out  of  his  chair. 

152 


THE   ART   OF   FILIBUSTERING 

The  honorable  member  rose — 'so  the  honorable 
member  announced — to  a  question  of  personal  privi- 
lege. 

"I  was  waiting  for  something  like  that,"  grinned 
the  Washingtonian.  "A  man  must  always  be  al- 
lowed to  speak  on  a  question  of  personal  privilege. 
And  that  old  guy  will  talk  half  the  night." 

The  privilege-seeker  begged  to  call  the  house's 
attention  to  the  lamentable  fact  that  an  alleged  state- 
ment of  his  had  been  misconstrued  by  one  of  the 
newspapers  into  an  expression  of  personal  opinion 
of  the  bill  now  under  discussion. 

"He'll  talk  until  his  tongue  is  paralyzed,"  said 
the  Washingtonian,  "and  then  some  one  will  move 
to  adjourn.  And  after  that,  some  other  machine 
orator  will  find  a  parliamentary  excuse  to  talk  for 
two  hours  more." 

But  the  ignorant  one  did  not  hear  the  dire  fore- 
cast. He  was  sleeping  sweetly.  And  in  the  golden 
stretches  of  dreamland  his  mind  forgot  that  his  tired 
body  was  still  in  the  sacred  halls  to  whose  august 
brotherhood's  membership  every  worthy  young  man 
is  urged  to  aspire, 


CHAPTER  XI 

IN   THE  DAY  OF   BATTLE 

ALPH  VAN  DYKE,  corporation  lawyer,  and 
the  railroads'  mouthpiece  in  Washington,  sat 
by  the  desk  lamp  in  the  library  of  Mark  Robertson's 
Hotel  Keswick  suite,  reading — and  here  and  there 
altering — several  typewritten  sheets.  Across  the 
desk  from  him  sat  Jim  Blake,  cigar  in  one  hand,  a 
telephone  receiver  held  to  his  ear. 

The  master  of  the  machine  was  not  leading  his 
forces  in  person  to-night.  He  seldom  did  so.  The 
commanding  general's  place  is  on  a  convenient  hill- 
top; not  in  the  vulgar  thick  of  the  fray.  And,  for 
divers  reasons,  Blake  had  chosen  his  son-in-law's 
apartment,  on  this  night,  as  his  hilltop.  The  tele- 
phone admirably  filled  for  him  the  dual  roles  of 
spy-glass  and  courier.  Just  now,  he  was  listening 
intently  to  a  report  from  Tim  Neligan  at  the  Capitol. 

"Good  old  Tim !"  he  broke  out  after  a  moment's 
154 


IN    THE    DAY    OF    BATTLE 

close  attention  to  the  receiver.  "What  d'ye  think 
of  that,  Van  Dyke?  We  get  the  roll-call." 

"Good!"  pronounced  Van  Dyke,  glancing  up 
from  his  reading. 

"Standish  still  in  his  seat?"  queried  Blake  into 
the  transmitter.  "Yes?  All  right.  Keep  right  on 
with  the  program  I  gave  you.  No  need  to  change  it 
unless  something  unexpected  cuts  loose.  And  it 
won't.  What?  No.  Not  yet.  Can't  get  a  word 
out  of  her.  But  we  will.  Don't  you  worry.  So 
long." 

"Well,"  he  added  to  Van  Dyke,  as  he  hung  up  the 
receiver  and  pushed  the  telephone  back  on  the  table- 
desk's  flat  surface.  "This  roll-call  gives  us  another 
hour  to  breathe  in." 

"We'll  need  it.  And  more,"  said  Van  Dyke,  re- 
turning to  his  reading. 

Blake  rose,  stretched  himself,  and  strolled  across 
to  the  window.  Drawing  aside  the  curtains  he 
looked  out.  Washington  lay  cold  and  beautiful  un- 
der the  winter  starlight.  From  the  great  bulk  of 
the  Capitol  blazed  lines  of  white  lights. 

"H'm!"  muttered  Blake,  glancing  back  at  the  desk 

155 


THE   WOMAN 

clock  and  then  out  again  toward  the  spot  where  his 
forces  were  battling.  "I  haven't  seen  those  lights 
burning  so  late  since  the  night  we  lost  Uncle  Joe." 

The  lawyer  did  not  answer.  He  was  correcting 
a  sentence  in  the  manuscript  he  held.  Blake  moved 
across  to  him  and  glanced  over  his  shoulder. 

"Sure  you're  making  that  strong  enough,  Van 
Dyke?"  he  asked.  "Don't  use  the  word  'utensil' 
when  'spade'  will  do  just  as  well.  Cut  out  any  flow- 
ery stuff  and  bang  away  at  the  point." 

"I  have,"  replied  Van  Dyke,  handing  Blake  the 
edited  pages.  "Look  it  over  and  see  how  it  strikes 
you." 

Blake  took  the  manuscript  and  scanned  its  con- 
tents from  beneath  his  drooped  lids.  As  he  read,  a 
look  of  unqualified  approval  replaced  the  doubt  on 
his  face.  He  nodded  emphatically,  once  or  twice. 
In  his  interest  he  unconsciously  muttered,  half  aloud, 
certain  disjointed  phrases  of  what  he  was  reading. 

"  'Standish,  the  arch  reformer,'  "  he  murmured. 

'  'A  moralist  dethroned — scandalous  past  of  a  house 

leader  brought  to  light — disciple  of  purity  in  politics 

156 


IN    THE    DAY   OF    BATTLE 

convicted  of  dissolute  private  life' — H'm!  That's 
the  stuff.  It'll  make  'em  sit  up,  I  guess." 

"If  we  can  use  it,"  corrected  Van  Dyke.  "As  it 
stands,  it  represents  nothing  but  three  spoiled  sheets 
of  white  paper." 

"It'll  represent  one  perfectly  good  insurgent  chief 
split  up  the  back,  before  another  hour's  past,"  re- 
torted Blake.  "I'll  have  the  Woman's  name  by  that 
time." 

"What  is  that  stubborn  little  telephone  girl  hold- 
ing out  for,  I  wonder?" 

"It's  past  me !"  growled  Blake.  "If  it  was  a  man 
I  could  size  up  the  game  at  a  glance  and  I'd  know 
just  what  move  to  make.  Every  man  has  always  had 
his  price.  Except  One.  And  we  crucified  Him. 
But  with  women  it's  different.  You  can't  tell  what 
a  woman's  going  to  do.  For  the  mighty  good  rea- 
son that  she  doesn't  know,  herself.  This  Kelly  girl's 
got  me  guessing.  She  let  me  think  I  could  buy  her 
dead  easy.  Then  she  played  for  time.  And  now 
she's  thrown  us  down  altogether  and  won't  say  a 
word." 

157 


THE   WOMAN 

"You've  sent  over  to  central  for  that  duplicate  list 
of  all  the  numbers  that  were  called  up  from  the  Kes- 
wick  to-day?  Let  me  look  at  them." 

"They  aren't  here  yet,"  replied  Blake.  "I  only 
sent  for  them  a  few  minutes  ago.  You  see,  I  thought 
I  could  save  a  lot  of  time  by  getting  the  informa- 
tion, direct,  from  the  girl  herself." 

"The  girl !"  echoed  Van  Dyke  disgustedly.  "We've 
already  wasted  too  much  time  on  her.  Can't  we  get 
hold  of  Standish?" 

"He'll  be  along  pretty  soon." 

"You've  sent  for  him?  You're  sure  he'll  come 
for  your  sending?" 

"No,"  drawled  Blake,  "I  didn't.  And  he  wouldn't. 
But  Gregg  started  a  whisper  in  the  house  that  a 
scandal  will  break  before  morning.  And  he  threw  a 
hint  of  the  same  sort  to  the  newspaper  boys.  Neligan 
tells  me  you  couldn't  get  another  reporter  into  the 
press  gallery  now  with  a  shoe-horn.  All  that  will 
bring  Standish  here.  To  give  him  an  excuse — if  he 
wants  one,  and  I  don't  think  he  will — I'm  sending 
him  a  note — " 

"Oh,  if  we  can  publish  this  as  it's  written  here," 
158 


IN   THE   DAY   OF   BATTLE 

broke  in  Van  Dyke,  "we've  got  him!  This  story 
makes  him  out  the  lowest  blackguard  unhung."  . 

"And,"  amended  Blake  with  ingenuous  self-con- 
gratulation, "there  isn't  a  word  in  it  that  hasn't  got 
some  sort  of  foundation  on  fact.  That's  saying  a 
whole  lot  for  a  campaign  scandal.  We've  got  facts 
— real  facts.  Maybe  some  of  'em  are  twisted 
around  so  that  you'd  have  to  look  at  'em  twice  be- 
fore recognizing  their  dear  familiar  faces.  But 
they're  facts,  just  the  same." 

"And  they're  useless,"  grumbled  Van  Dyke,  "just 
because  the  one  fact  we  need  we  haven't  got." 

"You  mean  the  Woman?" 

"The  Woman's  name.  We  can't  get  any  one  to 
believe  a  word  of  the  story  without  that.  What  time 
is  it?  Oh,  I  didn't  notice  the  clock.  The 
time's  getting  short — dangerously  short.  If  we 
want  to  get  this  story  in  any  of  to-morrow's 
papers  we  must  have  her  name  mighty  quick.  As  it 
is,  I'm  afraid  it'll  be  too  late  for  anything  but  the 
last  editions  of  the  morning  papers.  What  did  the 
Associated  Press  people  say,  when  you — ?" 

"Jennings  promised  to  hold  a  wire  till  the  last 


THE   WOMAN 

minute.  Better  take  the  story  around  to  him  and  tell 
him  to  have  it  ready.  He  understands.  But  be  sure 
to  tell  him  not  to  let  it  go  till  I  give  the  word.  A 
false  move  just  now  would  be  a  boomerang  that 
we  couldn't  stand.  Come  back  as  soon  as  you  can. 
We  may  need  you." 

Van  Dyke,  pocketing  the  typewritten  sheets,  de- 
parted on  his  mission;  almost  colliding  at  the  door 
with  Tom  Blake,  who  was  coming  in. 

"Hello,  dad!"  hailed  Tom.  "I  just  dropped  in 
on  the  way  to  the  club  to  say  'howdy'  to  Grace. 
Where  is  she?  Turned  in?" 

"No.  Hasn't  even  got  in.  The  train's  hours 
late.  Washout  on  the  road  somewhere.  Mark  tele- 
phoned up  from  the  station.  He's  gone  back  there. 
They  ought  to  be  here  any  time  now.  Want  to 
wait?" 

"Poor  old  Mark !  It's  he  who's  doing  the  waiting. 
He  hates  waiting  for  anything.  I  don't  believe  he'd 
wait  at  a  station  half  an  hour  for  the  czar  of  Russia. 
But  he'd  wait  there  all  night  for  the  chance  of  seeing 
Grace  for  half  a  minute.  And  he  wouldn't  be  crank}' 

160 


IN    THE    DAY   OF    BATTLE 

about  it,  either.  It's  funny  what  love  will  do  for 
a  man.  Why — ' 

The  jangling  of  the  telephone  interrupted  him. 
Blake  picked  up  the  instrument. 

"Hello,  Henderson,"  he  said,  in  response  to  a 
greeting  from  the  other  end  of  the  wire.  "Yes — yes 
— All  right.  Say,  did  you  get  that  information  I  told 
you  to?  Good!  No,  no!  Don't  tell  me  anything 
over  the  phone.  Send  word  by  Neligan  when  he 
comes.  By  the  way,  just  keep  your  eye  on  Standish, 
will  you?  And  let  me  know  the  minute  he  leaves 
the  Capitol.  Good-by." 

"Aren't  you  taking  chances  in  being  away  from 
the  Capitol  to-night,  dad?  Or  can  you  handle  the 
fight  just  as  well  from  here  as  from — " 

"I  don't  take  chances,  son.  Sometimes  they  take 
me  and  then  I  have  to  outwit  them.  If  I  could  be 
of  any  use  at  the  Capitol,  why  I'd  be  as  much  a  fix- 
ture there,  to-night,  as  the  chamber  of  horrors — the 
state  statues,  I  mean.  But  Winthrop  will  get  the 
floor  after  this  roll-call.  And  he's  got  orders  to 
talk — talk — talk  and  then  talk  some  more,  and,  after 

161 


THE    WOMAN 

that,  to  keep  on  talking — until  I  send  him  word  to 
give  his  mouth  a  holiday.  We're  safe  for  a  good 
two  hours." 

"I'm  sleepy!"  yawned  Tom.  "Gee,  but  I  wish 
Grace  would  show  up !" 

"So  does  Mark,"  answered  Blake.  Then,  after  a 
moment,  a  chuckle  of  genuine  amusement  startled 
his  son. 

"What's  the  joke?"  asked  Tom.  "Did  I  miss  it?" 

"Yes,  you  missed  it,  all  right.  Both  you  and 
Grace  always  miss  it.  But  I  never  do.  I  was  just 
thinking — my  little  Grace — my  kid — keeping  the 
former  governor  of  New  York  cooling  his  heels 
in  a  drafty  railroad  station.  And,  forty  years 
ago,  her  father  was  a  barefoot  kid  with  one  sus- 
pender, panhandling  kind-hearted  old  folks  in  the 
street  with  dying-mother  stories  and  getting  nickels 
from  'em.  And  even  as  lately  as  twenty-two  years 
ago,  what  was  I  but  a  Chicago  city  clerk  making  an 
honest  living  by  keeping  my  eyes  shut  and  my  palm 
open  ?" 

"Dad,"  complained  Tom,  "I  can't  make  you  out ! 
You  always  seem  to  take  a  savage  delight  in  rubbing 

162 


IN    THE    DAY    OF    BATTLE 

in  the  fact  that  everything  we've  got  we  owe  to 
graft." 

"Well,"  asked  Blake,  puzzled,  "don't  we?  If  we 
don't  owe  it  to  graft,  what  do  we  owe  it  to,  I'd  like 
to  know  ?" 

"Oh,  we  do,  all  right,"  muttered  Tom.  "But 
what's  the  use  of  admitting  it?" 

"Why  should  I  admit  it?  Because  I'm  not 
ashamed  of  being  a  grafter.  But  I'd  be  ashamed  to 
look  at  myself  in  the  glass,  when  I  brush  the  hair 
I  haven't  got  any  more,  if  I  was  a  hypocrite.  Lord, 
but  I  do  hate  a  hypocrite !  And  if  you've  got  any  of 
the  old  man's  blood  in  you,  you  do,  too." 

"Of  course — yes — but — " 

"Listen  here,  son:  I'm  going  to  waste  four  min- 
utes' time  in  telling  you  just  what  a  grafter  is.  Don't 
go  saying  you  know  what  it  is.  You  don't.  Not 
one  man  in  fifty  does." 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  GOSPEL  OF  GRAFT 

TOM  settled  back  in  his  chair — half  resignedly, 
half  expectant.    It  was  not  often  that  Jim 
Blake  volunteered  to  waste  four  entire  minutes  in 

V 

explaining  anything  to  anybody.  And  the  novelty 
of  the  project  aroused  in  his  impatient  son  a  faint 
curiosity. 

"Fire  away!"  said  Tom.  "The  theme  of  the  ser- 
mon, I  understand,  is  Graft,  as  set  forth  by  its  arch 
exponent." 

"If  you  like,"  vouchsafed  Blake.  "You  can't 
make  me  sore  by  calling  me  a  grafter.  Because  I 
belong  to  the  right  kind.  You  see,  son,  there's  two 
sorts  of  grafters.  One  sort  thinks  he  is  committing 
a  crime.  Consequently,  he's  a  criminal.  The  other 
— my  sort,  if  you  like — knows  that  graft  is  a  na- 
tional institution  in  America.  He  knows  that  the 
grafter's  is  a  necessary  public  position  and  that  it 
ought  to  be  filled  by  an  honest  man.  So  he  takes 

164 


THE    GOSPEL    OF    GRAFT 

what  the  public  kindly  provides  and  proceeds  to 
get  rich." 

"There's  one  thing,"  corrected  Tom,  "that  the 
public  doesn't  provide  him  with.  And  that's  its 
respect" 

"Its  respect?  Son,  the  public  gives  him  that,  even 
before  he's  got  half  its  cash." 

"Nonsense !" 

"Oh,  you're  a  kid !  Your  silly  head's  stuffed  with 
a  lot  of  fool  notions  that  you've  dug  out  of  measly 
books  and  pamphlets.  If  the  folks  who  wrote  that 
stuff  had  the  right  dope,  d'you  suppose  they'd  be 
wasting  time  and  staying  poor,  by  writing?  Not 
they !  They'd  be  living  up  to  their  own  maxims  and 
coining  incomes  that  would  make  John  D.  Rocke- 
feller look  like  a  poor  relation.  You've  read  their 
books  but  you've  never  learned  to  read  men.  And, 
till  they  teach  that  in  the  schools,  the  public  is  liable 
to  keep  right  on  forgetting  to  sew  up  the  hole  in 
its  cash-pocket.  Who  is  it  that  makes  graft  pos- 
sible?" 

"Who?"  echoed  Tom.  "The  machine,  of  course. 
And  the  political  ring  in  every  country  and  city." 

165 


THE    WOMAN 

"You  sound  like  a  dinner-bell  that  doesn't  tinkle 
till  dinner's  over.  There's  only  one  crowd  that  lets 
grafting  keep  on.  And  that  crowd  is  made  up  of 
the  missing  links  between  the  sheep  and  the  donkey 
— which  same  missing  links  we  call,  for  lack  of  a 
better  name,  the  public." 

"Surely—" 

"Yes,  the  public.  Graft  couldn't  last  as  long  as  a 
tallow  dog  chasing  an  asbestos  cat  through  hell,  if 
the  public  didn't  permit  it.  Gee!  If  I  wasn't  so 
used  to  the  idea  I'd  laugh  myself  sick  over  it  Here's 
the  American  public — with  more  money  and  more 
brains  than  every  other  nation  on  earth  put  together ! 
And  they're  peaceably  allowing  themselves  to  be 
fleeced  year  after  year." 

"Not  'peaceably*.    Often  they  protest  and — " 

"Oh,  yes.  They  howl  bloody  murder,  and  yell: 
Thieves!  Help,  I'm  being  robbed!'  And  at  the 
same  time  they  sweep  the  sidewalk  with  their  hats 
every  time  one  of  the  robbers  passes  them  in  the 
street.  Other  nations  have  kings  and  nobility  to 
kotow  to.  We  haven't.  So  we  gratify  our  normal 

166 


THE    GOSPEL    OF    GRAFT 

craving  for  groveling  by  making  idols  of  our  biggest 
grafters." 

"No!" 

"Yes.  Not  the  pikers.  Not  the  grocer  who 
charges  creamery  prices  for  the  wooden  box  the 
butter  is  weighed  in.  Not  the  butcher  who  weighs 
his  hand  with  the  cold  storage  steak.  But  the  really 
big  grafter.  The  man  who  plays  for  millions  of 
dollars  at  every  throw.  The  public  adores  him. 
Back  comes  Dick  Croker  from  Ireland.  The  in- 
telligent New  York  people  yell  themselves  hoarse, 
shouting :  'Welcome  back  to  what  you've  left  of  our 
city!'  The  big  Wall  Street  grafters  go  to  Europe, 
and  emperors  pin  fancy  medals  on  'em.  The  public 
starts  investigations  about  bad  beef  and  the  high 
cost  of  living.  That  sort  of  thing  costs  the 
grafters  a  bit  of  money.  But  they  don't  care.  The 
minute  the  squeal  dies  down  they  get  all  the  cash 
back  again  by  putting  up  prices  one  notch  higher. 
The  public  screams — and  pays." 

"But  the  people—" 

"The  people  elect  a  president  to  fight  the  grafters. 
167 


THE    WOMAN 

And  the  minute  he  gets  busy  at  it  he  damn  near 
loses  his  job.  Yes,  sir,  it's  the  people  who  want 
graft  and  support  it.  If  they  didn't  want  it — if 
they'd  get  together  and  vote  it  down — it  wouldn't 
last  a  minute.  Could  I  or  any  other  man  go  to  a 
fellow's  house  and  pinch  his  watch  and  ring?  Not 
on  your  life!  Why  not?  Because  he  doesn't  want 
us  to.  He'd  shoot  us  or  jail  us.  Can  I  get  that 
same  man's  bank  roll  by  grafting  ?  I  sure  can.  And 
I  do.  Why?  Because  he  wants  me  to.  If  he  didn't 
I  couldn't  get  within  a  mile  of  it." 
"But—" 

"They  all  want  some  crumbs  of  the  cake,  them- 
selves. They  hope,  by  petty  grafting,  to  grow  into 
big  grafters.  In  the  meantime  they  look  on  the  big 
grafter  as  a  demigod.  Graft !  Why  it's  the  main- 
stay of  the  day's  news.  It's  the  one  item  everybody's 
crazy  to  read.  It's  the  bulwark  of  the  magazines. 
Why,  look  here,"  he  went  on,  picking  up  at  random 
one  of  several  magazines  scattered  on  the  table,  and 
running  over  its  pages.  "Look  here !  The  Shame 
of  the  Cities— Where  Did  You  Get  it,  Gentlemen? 
And  a  lot  more.  There's  no  country  on  earth  where 

168 


THE    GOSPEL    OF    GRAFT 

graft  flourishes  as  it  flourishes  here.  And  it's  be- 
cause the  public  doesn't  think  a  man's  worth  a  hoot 
in  Hades  unless  he  can  sell  'em  a  gold  brick.  Bah ! 
Don't  talk  to  me  about  the  public!  They've  made 
me  rich.  But  they  sure  give  me  a  pain." 

"Dad,"  observed  Tom  as  Blake  paused  for  breath, 
"I  owe  you  an  apology.  I  thought  grafting  was 
only  a  failing  with  you.  But  I  see  it's  a  religion." 

"It  is,"  cheerfully  assented  Blake.  "I'm  a  Util- 
itarian. And  the  public  is  responsible  for  my  con- 
version to  that  same  cozy  creed.  And  the  public  is 
responsible  for — " 

"Yes.  The  public  is  responsible.  Just  as  they're 
responsible  for  the  car  of  Juggernaut.  Juggernaut ! 
That's  what  a  friend  of  mine  called  it  to-day." 

"Did,  hey?  Well,  he  wasn't  so  far  wrong.  If 
I  remember  rightly,  from  the  dreary  Y.  M.  C.  A. 
stereopticon  lecture  on  India  that  some  of  my  con- 
stituents coaxed  me  into  frequenting  last  time  I  was 
back  home,  the  car  of  Juggernaut  used  to  be  dragged 
along  by  the  people  themselves.  And  it's  the  same 
in  America.  Only,  here,  the  car's  ropes  are  votes. 
Every  now  and  then,  some  poor  devil  of  a  fanatic, 

169 


THE   WOMAN 

looking  for  the  road  to  Heaven,  makes  a  noise  like 
a  reformer  and  hurls  himself  in  front  of  the  car. 
He  gets  crushed.  But  poor  old  Juggernaut  can't 
help  it.  He  isn't  pushing  the  car.  He's  only  riding 
in  it.  And  no  two  or  three  men  could  budge  it. 
Nothing  short  of  a  noble  army  of  voters  could  get  it 
into  motion.  So  when  I  see  the  whole  long-eared 
population  tugging  at  the  ropes,  I'd  rather  climb 
into  the  car  and  get  a  free  ride  than  to  make  my 
mark  in  the  world — face  down — under  the  wheels." 

"Don't  deceive  yourself  into  the  idea  that  the 
public  won't  wake  up.  The — " 

"Wake  up?  Of  course  the  public  will  wake  up. 
It's  liable  to  wake  up  any  minute.  And  that's  why 
I  want  to  get  mine,  first.  Like  my  good  'hoot  mon' 
friend,  Andy,  once  I've  got  enough  for  myself  I'm 
quite  willing  to  'take  the  duty  off  steel'." 

"And  turn  reformer  and  philanthropist?"  sneered 
Tom. 

"There  you  go !"  retorted  Blake.  "There  you  go, 
using  a  big  mouthful  of  words,  without  having  the 
faintest  idea  of  what  they  mean.  WThen  you  get  to 
theorizing,  son,  you  always  remind  me  of  a  gull 

170 


THE    GOSPEL    OF    GRAFT 

swimming  on  the  Atlantic  Ocean — drawing  four 
inches  of  water  and  without  the  remotest  notion  of 
the  infinite  depths  beneath  him.  Reform — and  phi- 
lanthropy! A  reformer  is  a  grafter  out  of  a  job. 
And  philanthropy  is  the  bandage  clapped  over  the 
eyes  of  justice.  Take  your  friend,  Standish,  for  in- 
stance. If  he  gets  into  power  will  he  be  a  bit  better 
than  we  are?" 

"Frankly,"  answered  Tom,  "I  think  he  will." 
"Why?     Tell  me  that?     Why  do  you  think  he 
will?" 

"Because,"  said  Tom  reluctantly,  "he  is  honest." 
"Oh,  lord!"  groaned  Blake.  "You're  hopeless  I 
You're  a  big  disappointment  to  me,  Tom.  I've  got 
plans  for  you.  Wonderful  plans.  And  sometimes 
I'm  afraid  you  won't  make  good.  Why  can't  you 
be  more  like  Mark?  Look  what  he's  done  for  him- 
self and  the  party  in  the  past  few  years." 

"Why  shouldn't  he?    He's  got  you  and  the  organ- 
ization behind  him.    And  scruples  don't  bother  him. 
He's  got  a  machine  instead  of  a  heart.    The  only 
human  thing  about  him  is  his  adoration  for  Grace." 
"Yes,  he  worships  her,  all  right.    But  he  doesn't 
171 


THE    WOMAN 

let  it  interfere  with  his  political  plans.  Now,  in 
your  case — " 

"I  don't  want  to  disappoint  you,  dad,"  interrupted 
Tom.  "But  before  you  go  any  further  in  your  ar- 
rangements for  me,  it's  only  fair  to  tell  you  I've 
been  making  a  few  plans  of  my  own." 

"Have,  hey?"  queried  Blake  as  though  listening 
to  the  prattle  of  a  somewhat  backward  child  of  six. 
"Such  as  what,  for  instance?" 

"Well,"  answered  Tom,  trying  not  to  show  his 
irritation  at  Blake's  tone.  "I — the  fact  is — I  want  to 
get  married." 

"The  blazes  you  do !  Is  that  a  boast  or  a  confes- 
sion?" 

"I  don't  quite  understand  you,"  said  Tom  stiffly. 

"I  mean,"  began  his  father,  "I  mean — oh,  never 
mind  all  that.  Who's  the  girl  ?" 

"Before  I  tell  you,"  evaded  Tom,  "I'd  like  to  get 
your  views  on  the  proposition  in  general." 

"In  general  ?"  repeated  Blake.  "Son,  marriage  is 
never  a  proposition  in  general!  Because  every 
woman  is  an  exception  that  proves  no  rule.  You 
can't  classify  'em  any  more  than  you  can  classify 

172 


THE    GOSPEL    OF    GRAFT 

a  nest  of  hornets  that  you  happen  to  step  into.  Hell's 
full  of  women.  So's  Heaven,  I  guess.  But  neither 
class  got  to  either  place  by  following  any  'proposi- 
tion in  general'.  Tell  me,"  he  demanded,  his  philo- 
sophical mood  changing  in  a  flash  to  one  of  almost 
savage  intentness,  "is  this  girl  the  sort  who  can  help 
you  in  getting  where  I  want  to  put  you?" 

"How  can  I  tell?  You've  never  told  me  just 
where  you  intended  to  put  me." 

"Then  I'll  tell  you  now.  There's  no  real  need  in 
your  sailing  any  farther  under  sealed  orders.  I've 
made  you  a  pretty  fair  lawyer.  You'll  have  one 
more  term  as  assistant  district  attorney.  Then  one 
as  district  attorney.  Then  as  attorney-general. 
After  that  a  term  or  two  in  the  cabinet — just  to  get 
the  run  of  things — " 

"There's  only  one  thing  left,"  said  Tom,  almost 
in  awe,  as  his  father  hesitated. 

"Yes?"  replied  Blake  grimly.  "Well,  maybe  that 
won't  be  left  when  we  get  through.  Now  you  can 
see  why  the  girl  must  be  of  good  family  and  have 
social  position  and  breeding  and  all  that  kind  of 
thinr.  Those  are  the  things  I'm  shy  on.  And  my 

173 


THE    WOMAN 

children  must  make  it  up  for  me.  I've  got  Grace 
started — she's  been  governor — and —  Why,  look  at 
the  style  she  lives  in!  And  I  can  remember  when 
you  and  she  slept  in  a  trundle-bed  in  a  tumble-down 
Chicago  tenement.  Now  that  I've  got  Grace  started 
it  is  your  turn.  This  girl  you  want  to  marry — can 
she  help  you?  Can  you  take  her  with  you — right 
•up  to  the  White  House  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  returned  Tom.  "You  see,  I've 
never  thought  of  her  as  a  political  asset.  I  want  her 
for  a  sweetheart — not  for  a  show-window.  And 
happiness  means  a  good  deal  more  to  me  than  po- 
sition. I've  already  told  her  so.  I — " 

"Told  her  so?  Then — then,  you've  asked  her  to 
marry  you?" 

"Yes." 

"And,  of  course,  when  she  looked  me  up  in  Brad- 
street  and — " 

"She's  refused  me — so  far." 

"Well!"  grinned  Blake,  vastly  relieved.  "That's 
far  enough,  I  guess.  Don't  go  overplaying  your 
luck." 

"I'm  going  to  stick  at  it  till  I  win  out !"  declared 
Tom.  "And  I'm—" 

174 


THE    GOSPEL    OF    GRAFT 

"No,  no !    Don't  do  a  crazy  thing  like  that,  son," 

pleaded  Blake.    "Take  your  medicine  like  a  man. 

i 

Don't  keep  on  pestering  the  poor  girl.    By  the  way, 
you  haven't  told  me  who  she  is." 

"She's — "  faltered  Tom ;  then,  taking  the  plunge, 
he  blurted  out:  "she's  Miss  Kelly." 

"Kelly?"  repeated  Blake,  mystified. 

"Yes.  Wanda  Kelly,  the  phone  operator  down- 
stairs." 

"What?"  exploded  Blake. 

Then  he  collapsed  in  the  nearest  chair  and  stared 
in  blank  helplessness  at  his  son. 

"Well,"  demanded  Tom,  instantly  on  the  de- 
fensive. 

"It's — it's  a  bum  joke,"  growled  Blake.  "Maybe 
it'd  go  better  with  the  banjo.  Stop  guying  me,  boy> 
and  tell  me  who  the  girl  really  is." 

"I  told  you,"  repeated  Tom.  "She  is  Wanda 
Kelly." 

There  was  a  dead  pause.    Blake  at  last  broke  it. 

"There's  about  forty-five  million  women  in  the 
United  States,"  he  muttered  dazedly,  "and  out  of 
that  whole  lot,  you  had  to  go  and — and  fall  in  love 
with—" 


THE    WOMAN 

"That's  right,"  laughed  Tom.  "It  certainly  looks 
that  way." 

"Then,"  stormed  Blake,  "go  take  another  look." 

"What's  your  objection?"  bristled  Tom.  "You 
don't  even  know  her,  yet." 

"I  don't,  hey?"  retorted  Blake. 

Then,  checking  the  impulse  to  tell  his  son  the 
story  of  his  verbal  tilt  with  Wanda,  he  added : 

"Maybe  I  don't.  But  I  know  her  kind.  She's 
after  a  rich  man's  son.  She's  an  easy-mark  hunter. 
And  she's  found  one  all  right,  all  right." 

"That's  absurd.    You  don't  know — " 

"Absurd  or  not,"  snapped  Blake,  "it's  got  to 
stop  short!  I'm  not  going  to  let  you  throw  your- 
self away  on  a  girl  like  that.  You  shan't  ruin  your 
life's  happiness — " 

"Oh,"  cut  in  Tom,  with  angry  sarcasm.    "It's  my 

happiness  you're  thinking  of,  is  it?" 

* 

"Yes,  it  is !"  cried  Blake.  "And  I'll  secure  your 
happiness  if  I  have  to — " 

"You're  bound  you'll  'have  peace,  if  you  have  to 
lick  every  galoot  in  the  valley  to  get  it',"  quoted 
Tom, 

176 


THE    GOSPEL    OF    GRAFT 

But  his  father  did  not  heed. 

"Yes!"  shouted  Blake.  "And  if  it  comes  to  a 
show-down,  I'll  withdraw  my  support  from  you. 
And  then  what  can  you  do?  Hey?  Answer  me 
that.  Here  I've  given  you  the  softest  snap  there  is 
— a  big  salary  for  loafing  around  an  office  a  few 
hours  a  week.  How  much  could  you  make  by  your 
own  law  practise  if  once  I  take  my  hand  from  under 
you  ?  You  haven't  got  an  earning  ability  of  a  thou- 
sand dollars  a  year.  And  you  know  it.  Suppose  I 
try  that ;  and  see  if  she's  so  blooming  anxious,  then, 
to  marry  you." 

"I  understand,"  said  Tom  bitterly.  "You're  so 
keen  on  my  being  happy  that  you'll  wreck  my  hap- 
piness to  make  me  so.  But  you're  wrong.  I  didn't 
ask  your  consent.  I  just  told  you  what  my  plans 
are.  That's  all." 

"It's  enough,  I  guess." 

"Look  here,  dad.  You  spoke  just  now  of  coming 
to  a  show-down.  Also  you  claim  I'm  no  good  with- 
out your  backing.  If  I  can't  make  a  living  on  my 
own  hook,  it's  high  time  for  me  to  begin  to  learn 
how.  If  all  the  education  and  money  and  training 

177 


THE    WOMAN 

you've  spent  on  me  have  fitted  me  for  nothing  except 
to  be  a  political  catspaw  for  you,  it's  time  I  started 
along  a  fresh  line.  If  a  man,  nowadays,  can't  forge 
ahead  without  being  a  time-server  and  a  boot- 
licker, I'll  stay  back  with  the  people  who  keep  their 
self-respect.  You've  outlined  my  position  pretty 
clearly.  And  I'm  going  to  make  my  own  way — with 
the  girl  I  mean  to  marry." 

"Oh,  you  poor  wall-eyed  fool !"  sighed  Blake. 

"If  I'm  a  fool,"  flared  Tom,  "I  inherit  it!" 

"Of  all  the  senseless  come-backs  I  ever  heard/' 
commented  Blake  disgustedly,  "that's  about  the  flat- 
est  and  silliest!  It'd  be  a  dandy  clue  for  a  picture 
puzzle  of  'Find  the  Fool.'  However,  we  understand 
each  other  at  last — " 

"I  suppose,"  broke  in  Tom,  with  sulky  contrition, 
"I  needn't  have  said  that.  I'm  sorry." 

"You  needn't  be.  Maybe  you  were  right.  Per- 
haps it  wasn't  such  a  punk  come-back  after  all.  But, 
of  course,  it's  tough  for  a  man  to  see  his  only  son 
throw  himself  away  on  a — " 

"Steady,  dad !  I  won't  stand  for  that  sort  of  talk 
about  her.  Not  even  from  you." 

178 


THE    GOSPEL    OF    GRAFT 

"Whether  I  say  it  or  not,"  grumbled  Blake,  "you 
know  what  I  think.  So  what's  the  difference?" 

"When  you  change  your  mind,"  answered  Tom, 
righting  hotly  for  self-control,  "you'll  have  less  to 
take  back." 

He  jammed  on  his  hat,  flung  open  the  door — and 
confronted  a  man  and  a  woman  who  were  entering. 

The  woman — tall,  slender,  strikingly  handsome- - 
darted  forward  to  where  Jim  Blake  stood  scowling 
at  his  son.  And  at  sight  of  her  the  scowl  changed 
to  a  light  that  few  men  had  seen — or  suspected — in 
the  grim  old  politician's  face. 

"Hello,  Grace!"  he  exclaimed  in  delight.  "Gee, 
but  you  come  like  a  bunch  of  sunshine  after  a  Welsh- 
rabbit  nightmare !  Stand  still  and  let's  look  at  you ! 
No,  don't  waste  time  kissing  Tom.  He's  got  other 
people  to  kiss." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

BEFORE  THE  STORM 

"T  T'S  good  to  get  a  welcome  at  last,"  laughed 
A     Grace.    "Mark's  been  as  cross  as  a  bear." 

"I  haven't !"  declared  Robertson. 

"You  have !"  she  insisted.  "And  just  because  the 
train  was  a  few  minutes  late.  Oh,  well — a  few 
hours,  then.  When  I  got  in  you  were  stamping  up 
and  down  the  platform  surrounded  by  a  blue  haze ; 
like  Ajax  defying  the— the  B.  &  O.  Really,  I  was 
ashamed  of  you.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  the  lovely 
flowers  you  got  me — " 

"What  was  the  delay?"  asked  Blake. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  answered,  laying  aside  her 
wraps  with  Robertson's  awkward  if  eager  aid.  "The 
engine  made  too  strenuous  an  effort  to  get  out  of 
Baltimore.  And  it  broke  down.  How  are  you, 

dad?" 

"Oh,"  grunted  Blake,  "as  well  as  a  man  may  hope 
1 80 


BEFORE    THE    STORM 

to  be  who  never  can  hope  to  make  himself  worthy  of 
such  a  wonderful  son.    I — " 

"Tom!"  cried  Grace  in  jolly  reproof.  "There's 
been  another  explosion !  What  was  it,  this  time  ? 
Tell  me!" 

"Politics,"  answered  Blake  before  Tom  could 
speak.  "I'm  a  wicked,  hopeless,  corrupt  old  guy, 
And  Tom's  just  discovered  it — for  the  thousandth 
time.  It's  hurt  his  feelings  something  terrible." 

"Nonsense,  Tom!"  said  Grace  lightly.  "Politics 
is  a  game.  Not  a  tragedy." 

"Gee !"  approved  Blake.  "I  wish  you  could  have 
been  the  son,  Grace ;  and  Tom  the  daughter." 

"Why  do  you  boys  quarrel  so  foolishly?"  she  de- 
manded. "Neither  of  you  ever  quarrels  with  me. 
I'm  going  to  be  an  arbitration  committee  and  a  dove 
of  peace,  all  in  one,  and  settle  your  grievances — 
when  I  get  time." 

"And,  speaking  of  time,"  put  in  Mark,  "I  ought 
to  be  at  the  Capitol  this  very  minute.  Coming?" 
he  asked,  turning  to  Blake  and  Tom. 

"In  a  little  while,"  said  Blake.  "You  two  run  on, 
I  want  to  speak  to  Grace." 

181 


THE    WOMAN 

Tom  led  the  way  from  the  room.  Mark,  follow- 
ing, paused  an  instant  on  the  threshold. 

"By  the  way,  Grace,"  he  called,  over  his  shoulder, 
"we've  asked  Standish  to  come  here.  It  wouldn't 
do  for  us  to  be  seen  conferring  with  him  at  the  Cap- 
itol or  anywhere  else  in  public.  If  he  gets  here  be- 
fore we're  back,  ask  him  to  wait,  won't  you  ?" 

His  wife's  back  had  been  turned  toward  him  and 
she  was  leaning  over  a  table  arranging  flowers  in  a 
vase.  Her  voice  as  she  replied  was  quite  indifferent. 

"Certainly,"  she  agreed.  "Confer  all  night  if  you 
want  to,  so  long  as  you  don't  do  it  loudly  enough  to 
keep  me  awake." 

Robertson  closed  the  door,  leaving  Grace  and  her 
father  alone  together.  Noting  Blake's  scowl,  she 
asked : 

"How  is  the  Mullins  fight  coming  on  ?" 

"Twenty- fourth  round,"  he  replied.     "Both  men 

groggy." 

"You'll  win,  though!"  she  said;  and  there  was 
scarce  a  note  of  interrogation  in  her  voice. 

"It's  a  way  I've  got,"  bluffed  her  father;  loath 
that  the  daughter,  whose  faith  in  his  powers  was  so 

182 


BEFORE   THE    STORM 

secure,  should  know  of  the  straits  in  which  he  was 
laboring.  "Standish  is  doing  his  best  to  block  us. 
And  he  thinks  he's  done  it.  A  lot  of  other  folks 
think  so,  too.  But  I'm  fixing  up  a  mine  to  spring 
under  him  to-night.  And  after  the  explosion  I  guess 
the  air  will  clear  for  the  Mullins  bill.  But  that 
wasn't  what  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  about.  It's 
Tom." 

"Tom?" 

"Yes.    He's  in  love." 

"Is  that  all?  Oh,  I  see.  The  quarrel  was  about 
that.  He  came  to  you  for  sympathy  and — " 

"Girl,  there's  four  things  no  man  can  get  sympa- 
thy for.  I  don't  know  why,  but  he  can't :  having 
his  umbrella  stolen;  getting  his  best  hat  sat  on; 
a  toothache;  and  falling  in  love.  But  it  happens 
Tom  didn't  come  looking  for  sympathy.  He  just 
handed  me  an  ultimatum.  And  it  didn't  ultimate. 
That's  where  I  want  you  to  help  me." 

"Who  is  she  ?    Do  I  know  her  ?" 

"You've  probably  seen  her  here  at  the  Keswick, 
though  I  don't  suppose  you've  noticed  her.  You 
wouldn't  be  likely  to.  She's  Wanda  Kelly/' 

183 


THE   WOMAN 

"'Not  the  phone  girl?"  asked  Grace  in  dismay. 

"You  win.  Real  nice,  ain't  it?  Makes  an  awful 
hit  with  me,  after  all  I've  done  and  planned  for  that 
boy,  to  have  him  tumble  into  an  affair  like  this." 

"But  couldn't  you  make  him  see  reason?" 

"You  didn't  catch  what  I  said,  Grace.  I've  just 
told  you  he's  in  love" 

"And  you  shouted  at  him  and  got  him  stubborn 
and  angry,  instead  of — ?" 

"That's  right.  He  and  I  always  blaze  up  when 
we  get  together.  The  boy  takes  after  his  father 
too  much.  And  he's  always  trying  to  strike  out  in 
new  roads  for  himself  and  thinking  he  knows  more 
than  sane  folks.  Thank  goodness,  you  never  showed 
any  streak  of  that,  girl.  It's  crazy  for  a  man  to 
do  it.  But,  for  a  woman,  it's  suicide.  It's  a  family 
failing  and  I'm  grateful  that  it  skipped  you." 

"But,"  evaded  Grace,  "what  do  you  want  me  to 

do?" 

"Talk  to  the  boy.  Talk  sense  to  him.  He'll  listen 
to  you.  You've  got  a  way  with  you.  And  you're 
young.  Young  folks  will  always  listen  to  young 

184 


BEFORE   THE    STORM 

folks.  They're  young  themselves,  so  they  think 
maybe  they're  hearing  wisdom  when  they  listen  to 
one  of  their  own  sort.  But  they  know  all  old  folks 
are  fools.  Tom  will  come  to  you  for  advice.  He 
always  does.  Advice  is  a  thing  every  one  asks, 
every  one  gives — and  no  one  takes.  But  maybe  you 
can  make  him  see  a  glimmer  of  light." 

"I'll  try.  The  whole  thing  is  absurd  and  impos- 
sible, of  course.  And  it  must  be  broken  up  at  once. 
I'll  do  my  best." 

"I  know  you  will.  You  always  did.  Remember, 
in  the  old  tenement  days,  how  I  used  to  tell  you  not 
to  let  him  wade  in  the  gutter?  And  you  never  did. 
Well,  keep  him  from  wading  in  it  now.  Explain  to 
him  that  this  Kelly  girl's  after  my  money.  Tell  him 
she's  just  a  common  graf — I  mean  a  designing  per- 
son. You'll  fix  it,  won't  you?  Good!  Oh,  but 
you're  sure  a  comfort  to  me,  Grace!  You're  the 
best  ever!" 

"Don't  worry!"  she  reassured  him.  "There  are 
other  ways  of  convincing  a  man — especially  a  lover 
— than  by  storming  at  him.  You  know  all  about 

185 


THE    WOMAN 

politics,  dad,  and  you  can  whip  voters  and  congress- 
men into  line.  But  Tom  needs  a  different  line  of 
attack.  And  he's  going  to  get  it.  From  me." 

"Say!"  ejaculated  Blake.  "I  wish  there  was  a 
man  on  earth  I  could  turn  a  ticklish  business  over  to, 
with  the  same  sureness  that  I  can  to  you.  You've 
taken  a  three-ton  load  off  my  mind.  By  the  way, 
do  you  know  anything  about  this  Kelly  girl  ?" 

"I've  spoken  to  her  once  or  twice.  What  about 
her?" 

"She  isn't  a  fool.  She's  rather  pretty,  too.  She's 
got  a  strangle  hold  on  Tom,  with  the  idea  that  the 
same  strangle  hold  will  choke  some  of  my  cash  out 
of  my  pocket.  It  won't.  Tell  Tom  so.  I  tried  to 
tell  him.  But  he  got  on  the  stump  and  made  a 
noise  like  a  spread  eagle  spurning  the  home  nest. 
So  long !  I've  got  to  chase  over  to  the  Capitol.  We'll 
all  be  back  in  a  little  while  for  our  confab  with 
Standish.  You'll  keep  him  here  if  he  comes  before 
we  get  back  ?" 

"Yes,"  she  replied  a  little  wearily.  "I'll  keep  him 
here." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  FORLORN  HOPE 

•  7XDR  a  minute  or  so  after  her  father  had  left  her, 
•*"  Grace  Robertson  busied  herself  in  laying  away 
her  hat  and  furs  and  in  putting  a  stray  feminine 
touch  here  and  there  to  various  details  of  the  room's 
disarranged  appointments.  A  man  would  have  said 
the  place  was  in  excellent  order.  The  woman,  who 
had  first  planned  and  ordered  its  setting,  instinct- 
ively noted  the  various  careless  shifts  made  by  un- 
conscious masculine  hands  in  her  absence.  And  she 
mechanically  set  about  rectifying  them. 

But  another  woman  could  have  seen  how  very 
mechanical  all  Grace's  movements  were.  At  every 
step  in  the  hall  outside  the  suite,  she  paused  and 
seemed  to  brace  herself  as  for  some  ordeal.  When 
at  last  the  electric  buzzer  announced  a  caller,  she 
moved  with  perfect  calmness  to  the  door,  as  though 
to  admit  a  stranger.  But  at  sight  of  the  figure  on 


THE    WOMAN 

the  threshold  of  the  opened  door,  her  hard-won  com- 
posure changed  to  a  frigid  stiffness.  For  the  visitor 
was  not  Standish. 

It  was  Wanda  Kelly. 

"May  I  come  in,  Mrs.  Robertson?"  asked  the  girl 
nervously,  glancing  behind  her  as  she  spoke. 

A  cold  inclination  of  the  head  gave  the  desired 
permission.  Wanda  entered,  looked  about;  then 
waited  while  Grace  closed  the  door. 

"You  know  me  ?"  asked  the  girl. 

"I  think  so,"  returned  Grace,  in  no  measure  un- 
bending. "You  are  Miss  Kelly,  aren't  you?  The 
phone  girl  down-stairs?" 

"Yes.  I  got  one  of  the  boys  to  mind  the  switch- 
board while  I  came  up.  Is — is  any  one  in  there?" 
she  continued,  glancing  toward  the  door  that  led  to 
the  inner  rooms  of  the  suite. 

"No  one,"  said  Grace.  "Why  do  you  ask?  Is 
your  business  with  me  so  very  private?" 

"Yes.  So  private  that  I  don't  quite  know  how  to 
begin." 

She  paused.  Grace  would  give  her  no  assistance ; 
but  stood  watching  the  younger  woman  with  the  air 

188 


THE    FORLORN    HOPE 

of  one  who  coolly  waits  for  a  dead-beat  cc  bring  the 
conversation  to  the  begging  point. 

She  felt  certain  of  the  reason  for  Wanda's  visit. 
Her  father's  tale  of  Tom's  silly  love-affair  gave  her 
the  clue.  Wanda  had  doubtless  heard,  through  Tom, 
how  Blake  had  received  the  news  of  the  young 
man's  love.  And  now  the  girl  had  come  to  try  to 
enlist  the  sympathy  and  aid  of  the  woman  to  whom 
it  was  known  Jim  Blake  could  refuse  nothing. 

Contempt  for  the  melodramatic,  weakly  senti- 
mental appeal,  which  she  was  thoroughly  prepared 
to  treat  as  it  merited,  showed  in  every  line  of  Grace's 
face.  But  Wanda  was  far  too  perturbed  to  note  the 
expression. 

"I  don't  know  how  to  begin,"  she  faltered  once 
more. 

"Indeed?"  queried  Grace. 

"You  haven't  heard  anything?"  asked  Wanda. 
"They  haven't  told  you?  Your  father  hasn't  told 
you  anything  about  me  ?" 

"Please  be  more  explicit." 

"You  have  heard !"  exclaimed  Wanda.  "And  yet 
you  can  stand  there  as  if  nothing  had  happened." 

189 


THE    WOMAN 

"Nothing  has  happened  that  could  cause  any  of  us 
real  nervousness.  This  boyish  folly  of  my  broth- 
er's—" 

"Your  brother's?"  echoed  Wanda  in  a  bewilder- 
ment whose  genuineness  Grace  could  not  doubt. 
"Have  they  dragged  him  into  it,  too  ?" 

"Miss  Kelly,"  said  Grace,  "we  seem  to  be  talking 
at  cross-purposes.  Will  you  kindly  come  to  the 
point?  What  is  it  you  think  I  have  or  haven't 
heard?" 

"About  their  scheme  to  wreck  Mr.  Standish — " 

"Mr.  Standish!" 

The  exclamation  was  out  before  Grace  was  well 
aware  of  it.  But  she  managed,  none  the  less,  to 
give  the  quickly  spoken  words  a  turn  of  civil  inquiry, 
and  her  face  did  not  change. 

"Yes,"  hurried  on  Wanda.  "They're  digging  up 
the  old  scandal.  They've  unearthed  it  all  except  the 
Woman's  name.  They  must  get  that  before  they 
can  go  ahead.  When  they  get  that  name  they'll  use 
the  story  to  ruin  him — and  her/' 

"Yes?"  returned  Grace,  her  sweet  voice  bare  of 
emotion  and  her  expression  one  of  polite  boredom. 

190 


THE    FORLORN    HOPE 

"And  why  should  you  come  to  me  with  this  story? 
I  am  not  interested  in  the  seamy  side  of  politics." 

"Don't !"  cried  the  girl.  "Don't  try  to  bluff  it  out 
like  that,  Mrs.  Robertson.  It's  gone  too  far  for  that. 
It's  life  or  death  for  you.  They're  trying  to  get  the 
Woman's  name  out  of  me.  If  they  can't  do  that, 
there  are  other  ways.  Unless  you  can  stop  them. 
Now  that  I've  put  you  on  your  guard,  perhaps — " 

"My  dear  Miss  Kelly,"  said  Grace  patronizingly, 
"you  seem  quite  unstrung;  and,  if  you  will  excuse 
me  for  saying  so,  just  a  little  hysterical  and  inco- 
herent. As  far  as  I  can  gather,  you  appear  to  be 
hinting  that  I  may  know  something  of  a  scandal  in 
which  Mr.  Standish  is  implicated  and — " 

"Don't  you?"  demanded  the  girl  with  a  sudden- 
ness that  well-nigh  threw  the  other  off  her  splendid 
poise. 

"Your  question  is  impertinent,"  reproved  Grace. 
"Kindly—" 

"Oh,  all  right,"  said  Wanda  despondently.  "If 
that's  the  way  you  take  it,  it's  no  business  of  mine. 
But  you're  Tom  Blake's  sister  and  I  couldn't  let  you 
run  into  the  trap  without  warning  you.  I've  done  it. 

igi 


THE    WOMAN 

And  I've  been  called  impertinent  for  my  pains. 
When  I  first  found  out  it  was  you  who  were  mixed 
up  in  the  case,  I  said  to  myself :  'Let  Jim  Blake  go 
ahead.  Let  him  hit  out  in  the  dark  at  the  Woman, 
and  smash  his  own  heart  with  the  blow.  It'll  be 
fair.'  Then,  I  got  to  thinking  it  over.  And — well, 
I  found  I  couldn't  quite  bring  myself  to  pay  off 
my  own  debts  by  spoiling  another  woman's  life.  I 
guess  I'd  be  a  failure  at  politics,"  she  ended  with  a 
little  laugh  of  self-disgust.  "That's  all.  Good-by." 

"And  so,"  said  Grace  slowly,  "you  came  to  me — 
just  to  help  me?" 

"What  other  reason  could  I  have  had?"  asked 
Wanda,  puzzled. 

"You  didn't  think  for  an  instant,"  pursued  Grace, 
"that,  out  of  gratitude,  I  might  help  you  ?" 

"Help  me?    How?" 

"By  making  it  easy  for  you  to  carry  out  your  idea 
of  marrying  my  brother?  Perhaps  by  using  this 
scandal  story  as  a  threat  to  force  me  into  helping 
you?" 

Wanda  looked  at  her  for  a  full  half-minute  in 
192 


'And  why  should  you  come  to  me  with  this  story?" 


THE   FORLORN    HOPE 

blank  silence.    Then,  turning  to  the  door,  she  said: 

"I  guess  I  was  a  fool  to  butt  in." 

"One  moment!"  interposed  Grace;  adding,  as 
Wanda  paused:  "You — you  made  certain  insinua- 
tions about  me,  just  now.  You  must  prove  them — 
you  must  give  me  your  reasons  for  the  absurd  sup- 
position that  I  might  know  anything  about  this 
Standish  scandal." 

"You  mean,"  suggested  Wanda,  "how  did  I  find 
out  that  you — ?" 

"No.  There  was  nothing  at  all  to  find  out.  But 
I  want  to  know  how  you  are  going  to  try  to  drag 
me  into  this.  What  your  supposed  grounds  may  be 
for—" 

"Mrs.  Robertson,"  replied  Wanda,  her  hand  still 
on  the  door-knob,  "I'm  not  in  your  class.  I  don't 
know  just  how  women  in  your  station  of  life  manage 
such  things.  But  it  seems  rather  tough  that  you  can't 
find  a  way  to  defend  yourself  without  insulting  me. 
Let  that  go.  You  want  to  know  how  I  found  out? 
I'll  tell  you.  Early  this  evening  Mr.  Standish  learned 
of  this  scheme  to  wreck  him.  He  knows  the  story 

193 


THE    WOMAN 

couldn't  be  used  without  the  Woman's  name.  And 
Blake  bluffed  him  into  believing  the  machine  would 
have  the  name  before  midnight.  Mr.  Standish's  first 
thought  was  to  warn  the  Woman.  Just  as  Blake 
had  known  it  would  be.  He  called  up  your  house 
in  New  York—" 

"What  of  that?  I  was  not  at  home  this  evening. 
I  was  on  my  way  here  to — " 

"But  Mr.  Standish  didn't  know  that." 

"And,"  pursued  Grace  fiercely,  "just  because  Mr. 
Standish  chanced  to  call  up  my  husband's  New  York 
home,  you've  evolved  this  insane  theory.  Mr. 
Standish  wanted  to  speak  with  my  husband.  He — " 

"He  had  just  been  speaking  with  him  in  the  hotel 
corridor." 

"What  proof  is  there — beyond  your  unbacked 
word — that  he  called  up  my  house?" 

"The  time-card  at  central.  A  list  of  all  calls  is 
forwarded  every  evening  to  central  and — " 

"That  proves  nothing!"  declared  Grace.  "Noth- 
ing at  all.  Oh,  it's  a  pretty  trick  you're  playing, 
Miss  Kelly.  A  very  pretty  trick.  But  it  will  fail. 
You  build  it-  all  on  the  statement  that  some  one 

194 


THE   FORLORN   HOPE 

called  up  the  house  of  Governor  Robertson.  Fifty 
people  call  up  our  house  every  day.  And  on  the 
strength  of  that,  his  wife  is  to  be  involved  in  a  story 
of  low  intrigue — Oh,  it's  outrageous!  Do  you  sup- 
pose a  wild  story  like  that  would  have  any  other 
effect  than  to  put  you  promptly  in  prison  for  black- 
mail?" 

"Will  Mr.  Standish  explain  to  your  husband  why 
he  called  you  up?" 

"He  didn't  call  me  up.  Mr.  Standish  could  have 
had  no  possible  reason  to  warrant  him  in  telephon- 
ing to  me.  At  best,  your  theory  is  a  miserable  blun- 
der. Mr.  Standish  had  nothing  to  say  to  me.  He'll 
deny  every  charge  you  make.  And  my  word  will  be 
believed  ahead  of  a  blackmailing  phone  girl's.  I 
need  simply  say  you  tried  to  gain  my  help  by  means 
of  threats  to — " 

"You  need  simply  say  it?    Will  you  swear  to  it?" 

"Yes!"  flashed  Grace.  "If  the  need  arises.  A 
woman's  reputation  isn't  destroyed  so  easily  as  you 
seem  to  think,  Miss  Kelly." 

"And  the  country  hotel  proprietor?"  asked 
Wanda.  "I  forgot  to  say  they've  sent  for  him.  He 

195 


THE   WOMAN 

can  identify  the  Woman  who  was  registered  as  'Mrs. 
Fowler'—  He—" 

"Do  you  suppose,  for  one  moment,"  said  Grace, 
white  to  the  lips,  "that  my  husband  would  subject 
me  to  the  indignity  of  being  looked  over  like  a  com- 
mon criminal  ?  I  need  only  tell  the  truth — deny  the 
whole  malicious  lie — and — " 

"Oh!"  broke  in  Wanda,  with  reluctant  admira- 
tion, "you're  brave,  Mrs.  Robertson!  As  brave  as 
they  make  them.  You're  putting  up  a  glorious  fight. 
And  I  can't  help  liking  you  for  it.  Because  I  know 
— behind  the  brave  front — you're  sick  with  fear." 

"You  think—?" 

"I  know  it.  And — believe  me  or  not — you've  got 
me  sized  up  all  wrong.  I — I'm  not  going  to  marry 
your  brother.  But  I  don't  want  to  see  his  sister  get 
into  this  mess.  Why  won't  you  trust  me?  You'll 
need  my  help.  You'll  need  every  scrap  of  help  you 
can  get  from  any  one.  You  don't  know  the  danger 
you're  in.  For  you've  never  been  up  against  the 
machine." 

"Really—" 

"The  machine !"  rushed  on  Wanda.  "It's  got  the 
196 


THE   FORLORN    HOPE 

brains  of  all  the  men  that  are  in  it.  And  none  of 
the  heart.  It  bums  up  everything  that  gets  in  its 
path.  And  now  it  needs  a  woman's  good  name  and 
happiness  to  keep  it  in  fuel.  It's  only  square  that 
you  should  be  the  Woman.  It'll  let  them  see  how 
other  people  have  felt  when  the  machine  crushed 
them — how  my  father  felt  when  he  came  home  that 
horrible  day,  with  death  written  in  hib  eyes,  and  said 
to  my  mother :  'Molly,  I'm  done  for.  Blake  and  his 
machine  have  got  me!'  That's,  what  he  said.  And 
he  was  innocent." 

"But—" 

"That's  why  I  was  going  to  let  them  get  you,  and 
break  Jim  Blake's  vile  old  heart.  It's  the  chance  I've 
been  waiting  for,  five  endless  years.  I  was  waiting 
and  hoping  and  praying  for  them  to  strike  a  trail 
that  would  lead  to  their  own  graft-bought  homes. 
To-night  I  saw  God's  justice  begin  to  move,  I  saw 
that  Blake  and  his  crowd  were  working  out  their  own 
damnation  without  any  help  from  me.  And  then — 
Oh,  I'm  a  fool! — then,  all  at  once  I  forgot  the 
justice  part  of  it.  And  all  I  could  see  was  that  a 
gang  of  strong,  cruel,  clever  men  were  fighting  one 

197 


THE   .WOMAN 

unhappy  woman.  I — I  guess  that's  why  Fve  stayed 
here,  even  after  you  called  me  a  blackmailer." 

"If  there  were  any  truth  in  your  story,"  answered 
Grace,  and  her  voice  was  dead,  "you'd  surely  have 
your  revenge  in  seeing  my  father's  pride  and  his 
life's  happiness  destroyed — my  home  broken  up — 
and  my  brother — " 

"Yes,"  said  Wanda.  "I  thought  of  your  brother, 
too.  I'm  sorry  if  I've  hurt  your  feelings  by  talking 
as  I  have  about  the  machine  your  father  controls. 
Especially  since  your  husband's  in  it,  too.  I  don't 
doubt  they're  all  right  in  their  homes.  But  they're 
parts  of  the  machine.  It's  like  a  gun :  all  the  parts 
of  it  are  harmless,  till  they're  put  together.  And 
then—" 

"You're  mistaken  about  me!  I  know  nothing  of 
this  Standish  scandal.  You're  trying  to  trick  me 
into  admitting  something  that  isn't  true.  And  you 
actually  think  you  can  succeed  in  making  out  a  case 
against  me?  Don't  you  see  how  absurd  it  is  for  a 
girl  in  your  station  to  try  such  a  trick?  My  name 
and  position  alone  are  enough  to — " 

"That's  just  it,"  retorted  Wanda.  "Your  name 
198 


THE   FORLORN    HOPE 

and  position!  Those  two  things  take  away  your 
only  possible  excuse  for  what  you  did  and  for  what 
you  are  doing  now !  You  had  what  the  story  books 
call  a  'sheltered  life'.  You  had  all  the  money  you 
could  possibly  spend.  You  had  everything  life  could 
give  you.  Yet  you  were  tempted.  And  you  went  un- 
der. Not  blindly,  either.  For  you  had  sense  enough 
to  clear  your  own  skirts  afterward  and  to  refuse  to 
abide  by  what  you'd  done.  When  a  man  does  that, 
you  know  well  enough  what  they  call  him." 

«T » 

"I  know  lots  of  girls — there  are  thousands  of 
them  in  this  city — who  grind  along,  year  after  year, 
working  like  slaves,  on  starvation  wages — often  go- 
ing without  enough  food  or  clothes  or  warmth — 
just  to  keep  themselves  straight.  For  every  one  of 
them  that  loses  the  fight  for  decency,  there  are  a 
hundred  that  win  out  and  stay  clean.  The  fight  kills 
them  sometimes.  They  can't  earn  enough  cash  to 
live  honestly.  So  they  don't  live  at  all.  They  get 
consumption  from  undereating  and  overworking. 
And  they  die — alone — in  their  cold  hall  bedrooms. 
But  they've  won !  They've  fought  the  good  fight  in 

199 


THE    WOMAN 

a  way  that  would  have  sent  a  lot  of  those  hairy  old 
Roman  martyrs  tumbling  down  for  the  count. 
They've  won,  I  tell  you !  And  that  is  the  kind  of  girl 
who  knows  what  temptation  really  means.  Not  your 
variety  of  temptation — gold-plated  and  velvet  lined ; 
but  the  real  sort  of  temptation — cold  iron  with  steel 
teeth." 

She  checked  her  tirade — a  little  ashamed  of  her 
own  vehemence. 

"But  your  past's  no  business  of  mine,"  she  went 
on  more  quietly.  "I  just  came  to  give  you  a  warn- 
ing. Take  it  or  leave  it.  It's  up  to  you." 

"I  don't  want  your  warning,"  said  Grace  sullenly. 
"I  tell  you,  I  admit  nothing." 

"Then  I  can't  help  you." 

"I  have  not  asked  your  help." 

"Just  as  you  like,"  sighed  Wanda.  "But  the  net's 
closing  tight  around  you,  Mrs.  Robertson.  And  if 
you  count  on  Mr.  Standish  to  help  you  or  to  deny 
anything,  you're  making  a  big  mistake.  The  min- 
ute he  finds  himself  cornered,  he'll  throw  you  over 
to  save  his  own  chances.  Oh,  won't  you  drop  the 
bluff,  once  and  for  all  ?  Won't  you  let  me—?'* 

200 


THE   FORLORN   HOPE 

"You  have  had  my  answer.  There  is  not  one  sin- 
gle fact  on  which  to  base  this — this  attack.  If  you 
try  to  drag  my  name  into  any  unsavory  scandal,  so 
much  the  worse  for  you.  You  think  I  am  afraid  of 
you,  and  of  your  veiled  threats,  Miss  Kelly  ?  Well, 
then,  if  you  dare  make  use  of  my  name — even  indi- 
rectly— in  connection  with  this  case,  I  shall  go  to 
my  father,  at  once  and  tell  him — tell  him  that — " 

"Tell  him  what,  Mrs.  Robertson?"  demanded 
Wanda.  . 

"That  you  tried  to  get  me  to  help  you  marry  Tom. 
And  that  when  I  refused  you  threatened  to  black- 
mail me — to  brand  me  as  the  Woman  he's  been 
hunting  for.  I — " 

A  purring  of  the  buzzer  interrupted  her. 

"We  will  put  it  to  the  test  now.1"  Grace  declared, 
turning  toward  the  door.  "There  are  my  husband 
and  father  outside.  'Afraid/  am  I?  'Sick  with 
fear  ?'  You  shall  see.  You  shall  tell  them,  here  and 
now,  that  I'm  the  Woman  they're  trying  to  find. 
Tell  them  and  see  what  will  happen.  If  you  haven't 
the  courage  to  tell  them  I'll  repeat  your  charges 
myself." 

20 1 


THE   WOMAN 

"Don't !  Don't!"  implored  Wanda,  as  the  buzzer 
sounded  once  more.  "Don't  try  it,  Mrs.  Robertson ! 
You  can't  carry  it  through,  I  tell  you.  They  have 
too  much  proof." 

"They  won't  apply  their  proof  to  me —  It  is  you 
who  will  need  proofs." 

"Very  good!"  cried  Wanda,  in  sudden  anger. 
"Go  ahead  and  do  it.  My  conscience  is  clear.  I 
wanted  to  help  you  and  I  got  insulted  for  my  pains. 
Go  as  far  as  you  like.  I'm  through." 

"You  are  not  through  yet,"  denied  Grace  furi- 
ously. "Stay  where  you  are !  We'll  settle  this  once 
and  for  all." 

She  threw  open  the  door.  Matthew  Standish 
stood  waiting  on  the  threshold. 


CHAPTER  XV 

LAUNCELOT   OR   GALAHAD? 

WANDA,  with  a  scared  smile  of  recognition, 
slipped  past  Standish  and  out  into  the  hall. 

"My  father  is  expecting  you,  Mr.  Standish,"  she 
heard  Grace  say — in  a  slightly  raised  tone,  palpably 
for  Wanda's  ears.  "He  told  me  to  ask  you  to  wait 
for  him  here  in  case  you  should  come  before  he  got 
back  from  the  Capitol." 

Then  the  door  closed,  and  Wanda  heard  no  more. 

The  moment  she  was  alone  with  Standish,  Grace 
Robertson's  bearing  underwent  an  almost  ludicrous 
change.  The  air  of  defiance  was  lost,  leaving  her 
face  strangely  drawn  and  haggard.  Her  muscles 
relaxed  as  though  a  mainspring  had  snapped.  She 
dropped  into  a  chair  and  pressed  her  hands  across 
her  burning  eyes. 

Standish  stood,  still  near  the  door,  looking  down 
at  her.  His  heavy  dark  mask  of  a  face  did  not  show 

203 


THE   WOMAN 

any  emotion  save  that  its  premature  lines  seemed 
all  at  once  cut  deeper.  His  somber  eyes  held  no 
light,  his  deep  voice  no  expression  as  he  said  at  last : 

"You  know,  then?" 

"Yes,"  returned  Grace,  starting  up. 

"I  tried  to  warn  you,"  said  he.  "How  did  you 
find  out?" 

"The  phone  girl.     Wanda  Kelly." 

"I  see,"  he  mused.  "I  ought  to  have  guessed. 
She  is  one  of  the  machine's  spies." 

"No.  She  wanted  to  help  me,  she  said.  But 
that  isn't  the  point.  She  knows.  And  she  is  the 
only  person  who  does — " 

"What  did  you  say  to  her  when  she — ?" 

"I  denied  everything,  of  course.  What  else  was 
there  to  do  ?" 

"There  was  nothing  else  to  do.  You  were  wise — 
while  the  affair  is  in  its  present  state." 

"It  was  wise  in  any  case." 

"Yes,"  he  agreed.  "It  was  wise  for  you.  But  I 
suppose  you  haven't  stopped  to  consider  my  position 
in  the  matter?" 

"Your  position?"  she  repeated  uncertainly. 
204 


LAUNCELOT    OR    GALAHAD? 

"What  do  you  mean?  What  is  your  position,  ex- 
cept to  stand  by  me  and  save  me?" 

"Of  course,"  he  hesitated,  "I'll  help  you  as  far 
as  I  can.  Believe  that." 

She  nodded,  reassured.  With  reassurance  came 
reaction. 

"Do  you  remember,"  she  asked  suddenly,  "a  ser- 
mon on  Conventionality  that  you  preached  to  me 
five  years  ago?  I  thought  it  was  rather  prosy  at 
the  time.  But,  somehow,  I  could  never  quite  forget 
it.  And  now  its  wretched  prophecies  have  come 
true.  Do  you  remember?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  had  told  you,"  she  went  on,  "that  Conventional- 
ity was  a  silly  bogy  who  scared  us  into  taking  long 
and  tortuous  roads  instead  of  the  easy  short  cuts. 
You  said  each  twist  in  the  long  road  was  made  b> 
some  man  ahead  who  turned  aside  to  avoid  the  pit- 
fall into  which  the  man  in  front  of  him  had  tumbled. 
I  laughed  and  said  I  was  going  to  choose  the  'short 
cut'  to  happiness.  You  told  me  the  short  cut  was 
white  with  the  bones  of  people  who  had  done  the 
same  thing.  And — you  said  no  one  could  defy  Con- 

205 


THE    WOMAN 

ventionality  without  sometime  hurting  the  lives  of 
other  people  besides  himself.  Well,  if  it's  any  com- 
fort to  you  to  know  it,  you  were  right." 

"It  is  not  a  comfort  to  me,"  he  answered.  "I 
would  give  my  life  to  save  you  from  the  penalty  of 
it  all." 

He  spoke  slowly,  in  a  heavy  lifeless  voice  that 
contrasted  oddly  with  his  words.  She  looked  up, 
startled. 

"It  won't  be  necessary  to  give  your  life,"  she  re- 
plied. "All  you  need  to  do  is — " 

"It  would  be  necessary  to  give  something  greater 
than  my  life,"  he  corrected.  "Something  I  can  not 
give,  because  I  have  no  right  to." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"You  forget  that  I  owe  a  duty  to  the  men  who 
have  made  me  their  leader  in  this  fight;  who  have 
staked  everything  on  me." 

"And  to  me  ?"  she  cried  shrilly.  "To  the  Woman 
who  staked  more  than  everything?  Do  you  owe 
nothing  to  me?" 

"I  do  not  want  to  think  what  I  owe  to  you,"  he 
206 


LAUNCELOT    OR   GALAHAD? 

evaded,  his  voice  shaking  ever  so  little.  "I  beg  you 
not  to  remind  me  of  it." 

"You  repudiate  the  debt,  then?"  she  sneered. 
"You  wish  to  forget  that  you  owe  me — " 

"That  I  owe  you  a  broken  life,  dead  hopes, 
wrecked  faith  in  women,  loss  of  the  one  thing  that 
makes  this  black  world  worth  living  in !"  he  finished. 
"Yes,  I  do  want  to  forget  it.  And  out  of  mercy  to 
you,  I  repudiate  the  debt.  Please  don't  let  us  speak 
of  it  again.  You  left  me  with  nothing  in  life  but 
an  empty  career.  In  order  not  to  go  mad  with 
brooding  over  all  that  had  been  stricken  from  me,  I 
flung  myself  heart  and  soul  into  my  work.  It  is 
due  to  you  that  I  am  where  I  am  to-day  and  that  the 
machine  is  at  my  mercy.  And,  now  that  my  work 
at  last  is  nearing  completion,  you  ask  me  to  renounce 
that,  too.  If  I  alone  were  concerned  I  would  obey 
you  and  go  out  into  the  world  alone  and  broken. 
But  I  have  no  right  to  obey  you  at  the  expense  of 
thousands  of  innocent  people  who  rely  on  me  as 
their  leader  and  their  deliverer." 

"You  won't  help  me?  You  put  these  miserable 
207 


THE   WOMAN 

constituents  and  politicians  of  yours  ahead  of  me?' 

"If  you  put  it  that  way,  yes." 

"Oh,  most  noble  statesman !"  she  mocked,  raging. 
!  "Embodiment  of  all  that  is  perfect  and — contempti- 
ble !  I  didn't  marry  you  because  I  no  longer  loved 
you  and  because  I  wouldn't  add  a  blasphemous  love- 
less marriage  to  my  other  sin.  If  I  had  become  your 
wife — even  if  it  ruined  both  our  lives — you  would 
have  felt  it  your  duty  to  stand  by  me  and  defend  me 
against  the  entire  world.  But  because  I  had  the 
courage  to  stop  before  I  made  us  both  miserable  for 
life,  you  can  not  in  honor  protect  me !  I  wonder  if 
you  half  realize  how  vile  a  thing  you  are !" 

He  did  not  answer.  Nor  did  his  somber  eyes, 
with  their  ashes  of  burned-out  fires,  falter  in  meet- 
ing her  blazing  look. 

"I  wouldn't  marry  you,"  she  went  on,  still  swept 
by  wrath,  "because  I  didn't  love  you.  And  now  I 
see  how  wise  I  was.  I  knew  nothing  of  real  love. 
It  wasn't  until  I  met  Mark  that  I  really  understood. 
Up  to  then  I'd  felt  no  shame  for  what  I'd  done.  But 
when  I  found  I  loved  him,  I  saw  it  all.  I  went 
through  a  hell  of  shame  that  has  never  wholly  left 

208 


- 


. 


"You    love   me?"    she   muttered. 


LAUNCELOT   OR    GALAHAD? 

me.  I  wanted  to  be  cleansed,  to  be  purified,  to  be 
worthy.  I  wanted  to  tell  Mark.  I  didn't  dare.  I 
knew  him  well  enough  to  be  certain  he'd  turn  from 
me  as  if  I  were  a  leper.  He'd  do  it,  even  now.  No 
one  but  a  woman  can  understand  what  it  means  to 
keep  a  secret  from  the  man  she  adores.  And — in 
those  days  I  learned  to  hate  you.  Yes,  to  hate  you. 
You  were  part  of  the  one  barrier  that  made  me  un- 
worthy to  be  Mark  Robertson's  wife." 

She  paused  in  her  furious  rambling  talk,  for 
Standish's  dark  face  had  grown  ghastly.  Vaguely 
she  wondered  why.  And  as  if  reading  her  thoughts, 
he  spoke.  There  was  no  thrill,  no  stir  in  the  slow 
lifeless  depths  of  his  voice : 

"I  love  you.  I  have  never  loved  any  other  woman 
in  all  my  miserable  life.  I  shall  keep  on  loving  you 
as  long  as  I  live.  I  do  not  want  to.  But  it  is  past 
my  power.  I  would  sooner  have  bitten  out  my 
tongue  than  betray  this  secret  of  yours.  All  this  can 
not  interest  you.  I  tell  you,  so  that  you  may  know 
the  punishment  is  not  all  yours.  You  merely  risk 
losing  what  you  have  gained  and  cherished  during 
the  past  few  years.  7  act  with  the  certainty  that  by 

209 


THE    WOMAN 

doing  my  duty  I  must  bring  ruin  and  heart-break  on 
the  woman  whom  I  love  more  than  I  love  my  own 
soul.  Is  my  task  easier  than  yours?  Doesn't  it 
mean  a  lifetime  of  agony  to  me?  A  lifetime  in 
which  to  remember  that  you  are  unhappy  and  dis- 
graced, and  that  I,  who  would  blithely  die  for  you, 
will  have  made  you  so." 

The  utter  ardor  of  his  words,  combined  with  the 
dull  lifelessness  of  his  tone,  was  almost  laughable. 
Grace  was  gazing  at  him  in  blank  astonishment. 

"You  love  me?"  she  muttered. 

"I  have  told  you  so,"  came  the  slow  measured 
answer.  "You  talk  much  of  your  love  for  Mark 
Robertson.  It  is  easy  to  love  when  love  makes  one 
blissfully  happy.  But  is  your  love  worthy  to  be  com- 
pared with  mine?  With  the  love  that  brings  only 
an  eternal  gnawing  anguish — the  love  that  can  never 
hope  for  one  atom  of  requital  and  yet  that  can  not 
die — the  love  that  would  sacrifice  everything  for 
you  and  yet  must  endure  sacrificing — you?" 

"You  love  me  ?"  she  repeated ;  and  her  voice  had 
all  at  once  grown  wondrous  sweet  and  vibrant.  "You 
love  me — Matt?" 

210 


LAUNCELOT    OR   GALAHAD? 

She  had  drawn  closer  to  him  as  she  spoke.  Now 
she  was  looking  straight  up  into  his  wretched  eyes ; 
her  own  glowing  like  mist-haloed  stars.  So  near 
to  him  was  she  that  the  chiffon  on  her  breast 
touched  the  harsh  texture  of  his  coat.  Her  breath 
played  lightly  on  his  face.  The  faint  fragrance  of 
her  hair  rilled  the  man's  nostrils.  The  warm  magic 
of  her  presence  dazed  him. 

Matthew  Standish  stood,  his  eyes  wide,  his  breath 
coming  fast,  the  sweat  beads  breaking  from  his  fore- 
head. The  heavy  mask  of  his  face  twisted  itself 
into  a  half -grotesque  aspect  of  pain. 

"You  love  me?"  she  murmured. 

"Yes !"  he  groaned,  his  big  voice  breaking.  "God 
help  me!  Yes!" 

"And  you  won't — you  can't — destroy  my  whole 
future.  You  can't,  dear!" 

"Ah? 

It  was  the  cry  of  revulsion  that  might  break  from 
a  forest-roamer  who  had  all  but  trodden  on  a  rattle- 
snake. He  recoiled  a  step,  with  a  shudder  as  of 
physical  sickness. 

"Was  this  needed  ?"  he  raged.  "Was  it  necessary 
211 


THE   WOMAN 

to  defile  my  smashed  idol  still  further?  Wasn't  it 
enough  that  you  long  ago  taught  me  to  look  on  all 
women  as  shadows  ?  Why  must  you  turn  misery  into 
nausea  by  playing  Delilah  ?  My  love  was  a  tragedy. 
Why  must  you  profane  it  and  make  it  foul?" 

He  mastered  himself  with  an  effort  and  fought 
his  way  back  to  the  wonted  lifeless  impersonality 
that  had  become  to  him  a  second  nature. 

"Mrs.  Robertson,"  he  went  on  in  his  customary 
measured  slowness,  "the  case  stands  like  this :  your 
father  and  husband  are  seeking  to  ruin  me  by  raking 
up  a  story  of  my  past.  That  story  involves  you. 
You  ask  me  to  protect  you.  You  sink  to  unspeak- 
able methods  to  make  me  do  so.  I  shall  protect  you 
as  far  as  I  can.  I  shall  do  so  to  the  extreme,  unless 
such  protection  must  involve  the  welfare  of  the 
people  who  trust  me.  At  that  point  my  duty  is  to 
them.  Not  to  you.  If  it  were  only  myself  who 
would  be  sacrificed — " 

"Sacrificed?"  she  echoed  savagely.    "Sacrifice  is 
not  a  monopoly  with  you.   I — " 

"No.    But  it  is  a  habit.    And  I  never  was  forced 
to  exercise  it  one  thousandth  as  strongly  as  at  this 

212 


LAUNCELOT   OR    GALAHAD? 

minute.    All  over  the  country,  people  are  hailing  me 
as  their  champion.     They  are  relying  like  children 
on  my  promise  to  break  the  cords  of  the  graft  net 
that  has  so  cruelly  bound  them.    Out  of  their  scanty 
savings,  poor  men  have  denied  themselves  to  con- 
tribute their  mite  to  my  campaign  funds,  the  funds 
that  were  to  give  them  honest  clean  government. 
Clergymen  have  acclaimed  me  the  leader  whom  God 
has  chosen  to  lead  the  people  out  of  political  bond- 
age.    I  could  endure  the  shame  of  being  thrown 
from  the  pedestal  on  which  the  men  have  placed  me. 
I  could  endure  to  see  their  admiration  turn  to  ridi- 
cule— to  note  the  sorrow  of  the  priests  who  have 
held  me  up  to  their  young  men  as  an  ideal  of  pure 
manhood.     All  this  I  could  and  would  endure,  as 
part  of  my  punishment.    But  I  will  not  stand  by 
meekly  and  see  my  life  work  for  my  country  ruined. 
I  will  not  betray  the  trust  of  millions  whose  only 
hope  rests  on  me.    This  story  your  father  has  dug 
up  must  not  be  made  public.    You  understand  me? 
It  must  not  be  made  public!  At  any  cost  to  myself 
or  to  you.    Is  that  clear?" 

"Yes,  jt  is  clear.    Abominably  clear.    But  my  own 
213 


THE   WOMAN 

course  is  just  as  clear.  I  shall  deny — deny — deny! 
For  five  years  I  have  been  rebuilding  my  life.  And 
I  am  not  going  to  have  it  ruined  now.  I've  paid! 
Oh,  I've  paid  a  thousandfold.  I  have  paid  my  debt 
in  the  most  terrible  coin  that  was  ever  struck  from 
torture's  mint — in  fear!  Fear  of  losing  my  hus- 
band's love  and  his  respect.  Fear  that  I  might  fall 
ill  and  blurt  out  the  horrible  truth  in  my  delirium. 
Fear  that  some  one  who  saw  us  during  that  week 
might  chance  to  confront  me  again.  Once,  in  a  the- 
ater, a  voice  at  my  elbow  said  'Good  evening,  Mrs. 
Fowler'.  It  sent  a  knife  of  horror  to  my  very  heart. 
The  greeting  was  meant  for  another  woman.  But 
I  was  ill  for  days  afterward.  Oh,  I've  paid!  I've 
paid  every  time  my  husband  has  kissed  me.  Every 
time  he  has  said  to  me  the  foolish  divine  things  that 
lovers  say — I  felt  as  though  I  were  secretly  killing 
a  child  who  worshiped  me." 

"I  know,"  began  Standish  sadly. 

But  she  would  none  of  his  sympathy. 

"I  have  prepared,  hour  after  hour,  for  just  this 
sort  of  crisis,"  she  continued.  "I  have  schooled  and 
steeled  and  rehearsed  myself  for  it.  And  now  that 

214 


LAUNCELOT    OR   GALAHAD? 

it's  come  I  can  go  through  with  my  part — I  can  and 
I  shall.  Why,"  she  blazed  forth,  her  voice  rising, 
strident  and  fierce,  "do  you  suppose  I'm  going  to 
throw  away  the  wonderful  happiness  I've  fought  so 
hard  to  win  and  to  hold  ?  The  happiness  I've  bought 
at  a  price  that  would  have  killed  any  other  woman  ? 
I  deserve  that  happiness.  It  is  mine.  And  I  am  go- 
ing to  keep  it.  I  know  what  real  love  is,  now.  And 
it  is  too  precious  to  lose.  Oh,  if  only  I  had  known 
in  time! — I  suppose,"  she  caught  herself  up  with  a 
mirthless  laugh,  "I  suppose  millions  of  women  have 
wished  that." 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  Standish.  "Sorrier  than  you 
can  know — or  care.  But  I  have  no  right  to  think 
of  either  your  happiness  or  mine.  If  I  am  beaten 
in  this  fight  it  means  infinitely  more  than  the  ruin 
of  my  own  career.  It  means  the  ruin  of  my  cause. 
We  won't  be  able  again  for  years  to  put  up  so  strong 
a  fight  as  we  can  to-day.  It  is  the  welfare  of  the 
people  that  is  at  stake.  Perhaps,  indirectly,  the  fu- 
ture of  my  country  itself." 

"Then,"  she  asked  in  tired  desperation,  "what  do 
you  mean  to  do?" 

215 


THE   WOMAN 

"Nothing  at  all,"  he  returned,  "so  long  as  your 
father  and  husband  keep  this  story  quiet." 

"But  surely  they  won't  publish  it  without  know- 
ing my — the  Woman's  name  ?" 

"That  is  what  I'm  beginning  to  be  afraid  of. 
They  may  feel  so  absolutely  certain  of  learning  the 
name  later,  that  they  will  circulate  the  story  on  the 
floor  of  the  house  to-night  and  in  to-morrow's  news- 
papers. And  then,  when  they  find  out  who  the 
Woman  really  is,  it  will  be  too  late  to  suppress  it. 
They  will  have  told  too  much  to  be  able  to  deny  any- 
thing afterward.  And  the  reporters  will  find  out 
the  rest.  No,  the  story  must  be  stopped  at  once.  I 
don't  care  how  or  by  whom.  You  have  tremendous 
influence  with  your  father.  You  must  stop  that 
story.  If  it  gets  out  I  shall  lose  the  fight.  And 
I  can  not  do  that,  even  to  save  you." 

"In  other  words,"  she  retorted,  "to  save  yourself 
you  will  hide  behind  me?" 

"If  you  care  to  put  it  so." 

"But,"  she  urged,  "I  can't  speak  to  father  or 
Mark  about  it.  I'm  not  supposed  to  know  anything 
about  it.  Suppose — suppose  I  can't  stop  it  ?" 

216 


LAUNCELOT    OR    GALAHAD? 

"You  must.  It's  the  only  chance.  They're  de- 
laying the  house  proceedings  this  minute  just  to  get 
their  proofs  in  order  to  launch  the  story  to-night. 
They  intend  to  use  it  to  prevent  my  certain  victory. 
And  they  must  not.  At  the  first  sign  that  they  mean 
to  do  so  I  shall  have  to  go  to  your  father  and  tell 
him  who  the  Woman  is!  I  would  rather  be  shot. 
But—" 

"Oh,"  she  burst  out  hysterically,  "you  wouldn't 
— you  couldn't — do  that !  You're  not  so  unutterably 
low  as  to  damn  the  future  of  a  woman  who  once 
trusted  you — who — " 

"I've  told  you,"  he  replied,  "that  I  am  not  in  this 
fight  as  a  man,  but  as  a  leader.  It  is  one  woman's 
good  name  against  the  welfare  of  a  nation.  I  haven't 
the  right  to  protect  you,  Grace.  I  won't  let  my  sin 
as  a  man  defeat  the  great  principles  I  stand  for." 

"You  coward !  You  pitiful  hypocritical  coward," 
she  raged.  "You  haven't  the  manhood  to  stand  by 
your  own  past.  You'll  let  a  woman  pay  your  debts 
— and  pay  them  with  everything  that  makes  her  life 
worth  living.  In  all  these  years  I've  felt  that  if  a 
moment  like  this  should  ever  come,  I  could  rely  on 

217 


THE   WOMAN 

your  honor.  I've  always  believed  you  would  at 
least — what  is  the  old  phrase? — 'perjure  yourself 
like  a  gentleman !' ' 

"Don't  you  suppose  I  realize  all  that?  If  there 
were  any  way  of  saving  you,  I'd  do  it.  There  is 
no  way.  I  may  be  a  coward —  But  I've  the  courage 
to  do  what  I  know  is  the  right  thing." 

"Is  it  right  to  betray  a  woman's  secret  for  your 
own  advancement?" 

"Is  it  right  to  double-cross  the  men  whom  I've 
taught  to  look  to  me  for  help?" 

"It's  easy  enough,"  she  flashed,  "to  save  your- 
self and  call  it  a  duty  to  the  people.  A  coward  can 
always  find  an  excuse.  Oh,  I  could  carry  it  all 
through  safely,  even  now,  if  only  you  were  a  man 
instead  of  a  block  of  stone." 

"It  is  too  late  now  for  reproaches,"  he  answered. 
"For  years  I've  been  building  up  a  fighting  strength 
— waiting  for  the  people's  chance  of  victory.  And 
that  chance  has  come.  If  they  lose,  it  shall  not  be 
because  of  their  leader.  I — 5> 

"A  woman's  reputation  is  worth  more  than  any 
mere  political  victory." 

218 


LAUNCELOT    OR    GALAHAD? 

"Then,"  he  commanded,  "tell  your  father  and 
husband  so.  They  are  preparing  to  wreck  a  woman's 
life  to  save  themselves.  No  code  of  honor  stands 
in  their  way.  They  are  out  to  win.  To  win  at  any 
price.  And  it  is  only  fair  that  the  filthy  methods 
they  use  should  come  back  on  their  own  heads.  If 
some  one  must  be  betrayed,  why  should  it  be  the 
innocent?  Why  not  the  Woman  who  is — guilty?" 

"Matt!"  she  wailed,  her  defense  all  swept 
away,  in  a  breath,  "if  you  let  my  husband  know — 
do  you  realize  what  it  would  mean  ?  It  would  mean 
a  separation — a  divorce — disgrace — everlasting  dis- 
grace !  Am  I  to  pay  that  price  for  your  victory  ?" 

"That  is  for  you  to  decide.  I  simply  warn  you 
not  to  let  your  husband  and  father  move  against  me 
on  these  lines.  That  is  all.  Good-by.  I  will  come 
back  later  to  see  Mr.  Blake." 

"Wait!"  she  begged.  "There  is  one  thing  you 
can  do — one  thing  you  must  do.  It  won't  endanger 
your  success.  My  father  and  Mark  and  some  other 
men  are  coming  here  for  a  conference.  I  want  you 
to  meet  them  and  to  urge  them  not  to  use  this  hor- 
rible story — " 

219 


THE   WOMAN 

"It  would  be  useless,"  he  objected,  though  moved 
in  spite  of  himself,  by  her  absolute  brokenness.  "It 
would  do  no  good." 

"I  won't  believe  that,"  she  protested.  "They  must 
have  some  feeling  of  chivalry,  some  sense  of  mercy. 
You  can  be  eloquent  when  you  choose.  If  you 
put  it  to  them  in  the  right  way  and  appeal  to  their 
manhood — they  may  consent  to — " 

"There  isn't  one  chance  in  a  hundred,"  he  said. 
"But  I'll  try  it  if  you  want  me  to.  Only — don't 
build  on  the  hope.  For  it  will  fail.  These  men  are 
like  bloodhounds  on  the  trail  of  this  Woman. 
You've  had  no  glimpse  of  that  side  of  them.  You'll 
see  it  to-night.  And  then  you'll  see  how  hopeless 
any  appeal  to  their  better  decenter  selves  must  be." 

"But  you'll  try—?" 

"I'll  try.  I  promise  you.  I'll  try  my  best  And 
I  will  guard  your  secret  as  long  as  it  can  be  guarded. 
Until  there  is  no  other  possible  chance.  Then — well, 
this  story  must  be  stopped.  That  is  all.  It  is  a 
waste  of  words  for  me  to  say  how  sorry  I  am  to 
have  made  you  so  unhappy  to-night.  Good-by." 

He  was  entirely  master  of  himself  now :  cold,  inv 
220 


LAUNCELOT    OR    GALAHAD? 

personal,  phlegmatic.  No  one  seeing  him  take  his 
leave  at  the  door  of  the  Robertson  suite  would  have 
guessed  his  brain  contained  a  solitary  thought  be- 
yond the  possible  winning  of  a  move  in  his  cherished 
political  game. 

The  moment  Standish  was  gone,  Grace  collapsed. 
She  sank  down  beside  the  desk  table,  helpless  to 
move  or  think.  Everything  was  in  a  black  whirl. 
Nothing  came  to  her  from  the  wild  chaos  save  the 
insistent  fact  that  her  hour  was  at  last  upon  her. 
The  hour  which  for  years  she  had  dreaded;  for 
which  she  had  so  long  and  so  carefully  prepared. 

And  now — after  all  her  cleverly-reared  defenses 
had  been  ready  and  in  perfect  preparation  against 
attack — those  defenses  were  crumbling  to  ashes. 
Vaguely  she  recalled  something  Standish  had  once 
said  about  the  folly  of  saving  the  anchor  after  the 
ship  was  wrecked. 

She  moved  convulsively.  The  motion  brought 
her  hand  in  contact  with  the  cold  metal  of  the  tele- 
phone on  the  table  before  her.  And  with  the  touch 
came  inspiration.  Catching  up  the  instrument  she 
unhooked  the  receiver. 

221 


THE   WOMAN 

"Miss  Kelly,"  she  called  tremulously.  "Is  that 
you  ?  You  know  my  voice.  I — I  am  alone  here — 
Can  you  come,  please  ?  At  once.  I  must  see  you — 
Oh,  thank  you —  At  once,  please." 

She  rose  unsteadily  to  her  feet,  as  might  a  half- 
senseless  pugilist  who  will  not  yet  give  up  a  hope- 
less fight. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

i 

AN  ODD  ALLIANCE 

THE  sound  of  a  step  in  the  hall  outside  brought 
Grace  to  the  door.  She  opened  it  stealthily,  as 
though  bent  on  some  mission  of  dire  peril.  And,  as 
stealthily,  Wanda  slipped  into  the  room,  closing  the 
door  behind  her.  The  two  women  faced  each  other 
in  silence.  It  was  Grace  who  spoke  first. 

"I — I  sent  for  you,  Miss  Kelly,"  she  began  un- 
certainly, "because — because — oh,  I'm  hemmed  in 
everywhere !  I  don't  know  which  way  to  turn !" 

"I  see,"  said  Wanda  quietly.  "Standish  is  going 
to  throw  you  over  to  save  himself?  I  was  afraid  so." 

"I — I  said  some  cruel — abominable  things  to  you 
a  little  while  ago,  Miss  Kelly,"  stammered  Grace. 
"Won't  you  forgive  me?  You  see,  I  was  fighting 
for  my  very  life.  I'm  sorry." 

"Do  you  mean  that  ?"  asked  Wanda  with  painful 
directness,  "or  do  you  say  it  because  you  happen  to 

need  my  help  ?" 

223 


THE   WOMAN 

"I  mean  it,"  repeated  Grace,  too  broken  to  resent 
the  query.  "I  mean  it.  Because — whether  you'll 
help  me  or  not — I'm  afraid  it's  all  over  with  me. 
You  were  right.  I  can't  fight  the  machine." 

"That's  all  right,"  Wanda  hastened  to  answer  in 
quick  contrition.  "I  didn't  mean  to  say  anything 
nasty.  I  was  still  a  bit  sore,  I  guess.  I'm  not,  any 
more." 

"All  those  things  you  said  about — about  tempta- 
tion— were  just,"  went  on  Grace.  "But  I  ask  you 
now  not  to  be  just.  The  world  will  show  enough 
justice  without  your  joining  in.  The  way  you 
looked  at  me  a  while  ago  showed  me  what  my  life 
will  be  when  people  know.  I  don't  want  justice 
from  you.  It's  mercy  I'm  begging  for.  Mercy  and 
— help.  I'm  not  a  wicked  woman,  Miss  Kelly.  I'm 
not.  For  God's  sake,  don't  judge  me  with  the  fear- 
ful justice  of  the  pure!  If  I  did  wrong  I'm  being 
made  to  suffer  enough  now  to  satisfy  the  most  rigid 
saint.  It  was  wrong.  I  see  it  at  last.  Yes,  and  I 
saw  it  long  ago.  I've  tried  to  'go  and  sin  no  more'. 
But  they  won't  let  me.  And  when  my  husband  finds 
out,  he  will  despise  me.  Just  as  you  do.  He  won't 

224 


AN   ODD    ALLIANCE 

understand  it  was  because  I  loved  him  that  I  couldn't 
tell  him.  I  wanted  his  love  and  his  respect.  And 
so  I  had  to  wrong  him  to  keep  his  love.  I  had  to 
cheat  him  to  keep  his  respect.  And  the  more  I  loved 
him  the  more  I  hated  myself." 

"You  love  him  like  that?"  questioned  Wanda, 
coming  a  step  nearer,  the  hard  light  dying  from  her 
big  eyes. 

"That  is  what  makes  it  so  terrible.  You  don't 
know  what  it  is  to  realize  that  even  confession  is  de- 
nied you — that  the  friends  who  care  for  you  would 
shun  you  if  they  knew  the  truth — that  the  man  you 
adore  doesn't  love  you,  but  a  wonder-woman  whom 
he  thinks  is  you.  That  is  what  I've  been  going 
through  ever  since  I  met  my  husband.  Do  you 
wonder  I  fought  to  keep  my  secret  ?" 

"I'm  sorry  I  was  cranky,"  said  Wanda  impul- 
sively, "and  I  guess  I  understand  all  about  it.  I 
thought  first  that  Fate  had  let  me  in  on  this  so  that 
I  could  show  you  up.  But  I  think  now  it  was  so  I 
could  be  of  some  use  to  you.  You  see,  there's  only 
we  two  women.  And  we've  got  to  fight  that  whole 
crowd." 

225 


THE    WOMAN 

"You'll  help  ?    You'll  stand  by  me  ?" 

"That's  what  I've  been  trying  to  tell  you,  Mrs. 
Robertson.  You've  paid  for  all  you  did.  And  I 
don't  want  you  to  pay  any  more.  You're  a  ten  times 
better  woman  this  minute  than  a  lot  who  have 
the  law  on  their  side.  So  forget  all  that  and  let's 
see  what  we  can  do." 

Grace,  to  Wanda's  dismay,  broke  down  and 
sobbed  in  hopeless  wretchedness. 

"Don't!  Don't!"  pleaded  the  girl.  "We'll— 
oh,  dear !"  a  sob  choking  her.  "Now  you've  got  me 
going!  We  must  brace  up  and  do  something. 
There's  plenty  of  spare  hours  for  crying.  But  this 
isn't  one  of  them.  We've  a  bunch  of  trouble  ahead 
of  us.  But  we're  going  to  win  out.  So  let's  get 
busy." 

"Yes,"  panted  Grace,  striving  to  regain  some  sort 
of  control  over  her  tears,  "I've  fought  too  long  to 
give  up  yet.  What  are  you  doing?" 

"Locking  the  outer  door  in  case  any  one  should 
butt  in.  Now,  where  shall  we  begin?  With 
Standish?" 

"Yes.    It's  he  that  I'm  afraid  of.    He  says—" 
226 


AN    ODD    ALLIANCE 

"You're  right.  He's  the  greatest  danger.  We 
may  be  able  to  get  away  with  the  rest,  somehow. 
But  if  they  get  Standish's  back  to  the  wall,  he'll 
tell  to  save  himself !" 

"He  told  me  he  would,"  assented  Grace.   "Oh — 
"But  if  I've  sized  him  up  right,"  went  on  Wanda, 
"he  won't  tell  unless  he  has  to — and  they've  got  to 
be  sure  of  landing  the  Woman  before  they  go  ahead. 
They  don't  dare  to  move  without  having  her  name. 
And  they  don't  dare  wait  to  get  it.     There's  some 
fireworks  due  here  to-night,  I'm  thinking." 
"They  know  you  have  the  clue  to  my  name — " 
"The  phone  number?     Yes.     They  know  I  have. 
But  I've  held  them  off.     And  they'll  think  of  some 
easier  way  to  get  it  before  they  tackle  me  again." 
"But  what  other  ways  could  they  try?" 
"By  this  time,   most  likely,   they've   applied   to 
central  for  all  the  numbers  called  up  from  this  hotel 
since  seven  o'clock  to-night.     We  have  to  turn  in 
our  calls  to  central,  you  know.     And  one  of  those 
numbers  will  be  the  one  they  want.    But  it'll  be  hard 
for  them  to  find  which  one.     Yours  would  be  the 
very  one  they  wouldn't  think  of." 

227 


THE    WOMAN 

"Can't  we  stop  them  from  getting  the  list  ?" 

"No.  Their  pull  is  too  strong.  But  it'll  take  time 
to  run  all  the  numbers  down.  And  time's  the  one 
thing  they  haven't  got.  They  may  have  to  come  to 
me,  after  all.  I  can  make  them  lose  some  more  time, 
if  they  do,  by  making  them  think  I'm  holding  out 
for  a  price.  Time!  That's  our  one  card.  They 
want  to  use  this  story  to-night.  If  we  can  keep 
them  from  doing  that — " 

"If  worst  comes  to  worst,"  exclaimed  Grace,  "I 
can  go  to  my  father  and  tell  him.  He  loves  me 
enough  to  keep  it  from  every  one.  Even  from 
Mark.  It'll  break  his  heart.  But  it  will  stop  the 
story." 

"No,"  decided  Wanda,  after  a  moment's  thought, 
"it's  too  late  for  that.  The  thing's  gone  too  far. 
Van  Dyke  and  your  husband  and  the  rest  are  as 
keen  for  the  name  as  he  is.  If  he  pretended  to 
weaken  or  tried  to  stop  them  now,  they'd  push  on 
in  spite  of  him." 

"Then  we've  got  to  work  alone.  We've  got  to 
keep  them  from  finding  out.  We've  got  to !  We've 
got  to!" 

228 


AN    ODD    ALLIANCE 

"I'd  give  seven  dollars  to  know  what  they're  do- 
ing now,"  mused  Wanda.  "It's  tough  to  work  in 
the  dark  like  this." 

"Suppose,"  suggested  Grace,  in  sudden  dread, 
"suppose  they  try  to  force  you  to  tell?  They're 
clever — and  they're  merciless.  And — " 

"They'll  have  a  sweet  time.  I'd  like  a  colored 
photograph  of  the  bunch  of  men  who  can  make  me 
talk  if  I  don't  want  to.  No,  no!  Don't  you  worry 
about  that,  Mrs.  Robertson.  I  only  wish  they'd  try 
it.  I  could  make  them  lose  barrels  of  time  working 
over  me." 

"It  wouldn't  be  as  easy  as  you  think,  I'm  afraid. 
They  are  so  determined — so — " 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it  would  be  liable  to  spoil  the 
evening  for  them  and  make  them  real  peevish.  But 
it  would  take  up  a  lot  of  time  they  haven't  got.  Let 
them  have  a  try  at  cross-questioning  me  if  they  like." 

"You  won't  let  them  break  you  down?  Oh,  I've 
no  right  to  allow  you  to  endanger  your  welfare  for 
me !  When  they  find  you  won't  tell,  they  may — " 

"Don't  let  that  keep  you  awake,  Mrs.  Robertson. 
I  know  I'm  taking  chances  in  bucking  the  machine. 

229 


THE   WOMAN 

Lord  knows  what  they'll  do  to  me.  But  it's  worth 
the  risk.  And  I'm  going  to  stand  by  you  till  the 
cows  come  home.  We — " 

A  rattling,  as  some  one  in  the  hall  tried  the  outer 
door  of  the  suite,  brought  both  women  to  their  feet 
in  wordless  fear.  Then  Mark  Robertson's  voice 
reached  them. 

"Grace!"  called  Robertson  from  the  hall.  "Are 
you  asleep?  The  door's  locked." 

"This  way,"  whispered  Grace,  pointing  to  the  in- 
ner rooms  of  the  suite.  "Go  down  the  passage. 
There's  another  door  at  the  end  of  it,  leading  out 
into  the  hall." 

"All  right,"  whispered  Wanda  in  reply.  "Good 
luck  to  you.  Keep  your  nerve.  That's  the  main 
thing.  Just  keep  your  nerve." 

"Grace!"  called  Mark  impatiently. 

Grace  crossed  to  the  locked  door,  paused  a  mo- 
ment until  she  heard  the  door  at  the  far  end  of  the 
suite  open  and  close,  then  unlocked  the  outer  door. 

"Did  you  fall  asleep?"  asked  Mark,  as  he  came  in. 
"How  did  the  door  happen  to  be  locked?" 

"I  didn't  know  I'd  locked  it,"  replied  Grace.  "It 
230 


AN    ODD    ALLIAINCE 

was  careless  of  me.  It  seems  I'm  fated  this  evening 
to  keep  you  waiting.  First  at  the  station.  Then — " 

"It's  queer,"  interrupted  Mark.  "I  could  have 
sworn  I  heard  a  woman's  voice — not  yours — talking 
in  here,  just  as  I  tried  the  door.  Probably  it  was 
in  the  next  suite." 

"Probably.  I'm  all  alone.  And  I'm  not  given  to 
soliloquy.  How  is  the  fight  going?" 

"Badly.  But  we'll  win.  We're  delaying  until 
we  can  get  certain  material  we  need.  We  can  hold 
off  for  several  hours  yet,  by  forcing  roll-calls  and 
all  that  kind  of  thing." 

"When  do  you  expect  the  others?" 

"They'll  be  here  in  a  minute.  I  came  on  ahead. 
I'm  a  fool,  I  suppose.  But  whenever  you're  in 
Washington,  every  minute  I'm  not  with  you  seems 
time  lost.  So  I  made  some  sort  of  an  excuse  and 
hurried  on.  Why,"  he  asked  in  sudden  alarm, 
"what's  the  matter?" 


CHAPTER  XVII 

A  WASTED  PLEA 

GRACE    started    guiltily    at    her    husband's 
troubled  question.   He  took  her  face  between 
his  hands  and  raised  it  to  the  light. 

"You're  ill !"  he  exclaimed  in  quick  dread.  "You 
look  actually  ghastly.  Shall  I  send  for  a  doctor?" 

"What  nonsense!"  she  laughed.  "I'm  all  right. 
Just  a  little  tired.  A  good  night's  sleep  will  put  me 
on  my  feet  again." 

"But  you  are  so  pale  and  your  eyes  are  so  strange. 
I  never  saw  you  like  this  before.  Are  you  sure 
you're  all  right  ?" 

"Of  course  I  am.  How  silly  of  you  to  worry  just 
because  a  long  railroad  trip  leaves  me  a  little  bit 
tired!" 

"I've  buried  myself  so  deep  in  politics,"  he 
growled  self-accusingly,  "that  I  hadn't  sense  enough 
to  remember  that  you  might  be  worn  out  and  might 

232 


A   WASTED    PLEA 

want  to  go  to  bed.  But  I  didn't  notice  that  you 
looked  badly  at  the  station.  It  wasn't  till  just  now 
when  the  light  happened  to  strike  your  face —  Oh, 
but  I'm  glad  to  see  you  here  again,  sweetheart!" 

"Really?"  she  asked  almost  timidly;  drinking  in 
her  husband's  words  as  a  condemned  man  might 
gaze  on  his  last  sunset. 

"Glad?"  he  cried.  "Indeed  I  am.  I'm  afraid 
I'll  never  get  past  the  honeymoon  stage.  You  don't 
want  me  to,  do  you?" 

"What  a  question  to  ask  a  woman!"  she  ex- 
claimed in  an  effort  at  lightness. 

"It's  queer,"  went  on  Mark,  drawing  her  to  him. 
"We've  been  married  three  whole  years — and  yet, 
every  day  I'm  more  and  more  in  love  with  you. 
You've  grown  to  mean  more  to  me  than  ambition 
and  everything  else." 

To  his  dismay,  she  buried  her  face  in  his  shoulder 
and  shook  with  a  spasm  of  uncontrollable  weeping. 

"What  is  it?"  he  implored — awkward,  manlike— 
in  his  eager  solicitude.  "You  are  ill!  What  is  it, 
darling?  Tell  me!" 

"Why,"  she  laughed  hysterically,  "I'm  unstrung, 

233 


THE    WOMAN 

I  suppose,  for  some  reason  or  other.  And  what 
you  said  broke  me  down  for  a  minute.  That's  all. 
I'm  ashamed  to  be  so  babyish." 

"That's  the  woman  of  it,"  he  said,  holding  her 
close  to  him  and  smoothing  her  hair.  "To  cry  be- 
cause you've  made  a  man  impossibly  happy.  It  looks 
as  if  you  hadn't  quite  got  beyond  the  honeymoon 
stage,  either." 

"I  wonder,"  she  faltered,  " — if  you'd  never  met 
me — if  you'd — " 

"I'd  never  have  known  what  I  missed.  That's 
where  nature  is  kind.  People  who  miss  the  real  love 
never  know.  We  only  know  when  we've  found  it." 

"But,"  she  pursued,  "when  people  find  out  too 
late — afterward —  That's  the  bitterest  thing  in  life, 
I  should  think.  It  isn't  easy  to  judge  people — 
women,  especially — who  find  out  too  late — and — 
and  who  try  then  to  get  their  birthright  of  happiness 
in  spite  of  everything." 

"Such  people  have  lost  their  claim  to  the  birth- 
right," he  answered.  "They've  sold  it  for  a  mess  of 
pottage.  That's  one  of  the  problems  of  the  ages, 

234 


A    WASTED    PLEA 

Grace.    And  man  has  made  laws  to  govern  it.    Laws 
that  are  wise  and — " 

"And  often  bitterly  cruel." 

"Laws  are  for  the  many.  Not  for  the  few.  And 
the  few  must  obey  them  for  the  good  of  the  many. 
But  I  didn't  give  the  rest  of  the  crowd  the  slip,  just 
to  bore  you  by  discussing  ethics.  Was  it  foolish  of 
me  to  run  away,  simply  to  have  a  few  extra  minutes 
with  you  ?  I've  been  fighting  so  hard — " 

"And  fighting  fairly,  too,  I  know.  Dear,  you'd 
never  take  an  unfair  advantage  of — " 

"No  advantage  is  unfair  in  politics.  Every  ad- 
vantage is  considered  a  legitimate  weapon.  But 
there  we  go  arguing  ethics  again !  I — •" 

"But,"  she  insisted,  "surely  it's  finer  to  fight 
fairly,  to — " 

"Politics,"  answered  Mark,  "is  war.  And  war 
is  the  science  of  finding  the  weakest  spot  in  your 
enemy's  armor  and  hammering  away  at  it  till  he 
yields.  For  instance,  we've  just  found  the  weakest 
sort  of  spot  in  Standish's  armor  and — " 

"You  have?    What  is  it?" 
235 


THE   WOMAN 

"There  are  only  two  weak  spots  in  most  men's 
armor.  One  is  money  crookedness.  The  other  is 
women.  In  Standish's  case  it  was  a  woman.  An 
affair  he  got  tangled  up  in  five  years  ago." 

"And  you'll  stoop  to  use  such  a  weapon  as  that  ?" 
she  cried  indignantly. 

"Why  not?  He'd  use  the  same  sort  of  weapon 
against  us,  fast  enough;  if  he  had  it." 

"But  that  isn't  fair  fighting,  Mark.  It's  disgusting 
scandal." 

"That's  his  lookout,  not  ours.  If  he  chanced  to 
know  something  damaging  in  my  private  life,  he'd 
use  it  in  a  minute." 

"But,  Mark!"  she  pleaded,  "you're  a  bigger,  wiser> 
greater  man  than  he  is.  For  my  sake,  don't  lower 
yourself  to  his  level  by  such  tricks  as  that!  Don't 
let  father  and  the  others  do  it." 

"It  isn't  a  pleasant  task,"  admitted  Robertson. 
"And  it's  not  the  kind  I  enjoy.  But  we've  got  to 
use  what  comes  to  our  hands.  We've  got  to  win. 
That  makes  it  necessary  to — " 

"But  if  /  asked  you — if  I  begged  you — " 

"Don't  ask  me,  dear.  This  is  one  of  the  things 
236 


A    WASTED    PLEA 

you  don't  understand.  You'll  have  to  leave  it  to 
me." 

"Perhaps,"  she  retorted  desperately,  "I  may  un- 
derstand it  far  better  than  you  do.  You  say  there's 
a  woman  concerned  in  it.  This  scandal  will  pillory 
her  and — " 

"That  type  of  woman  belongs  in  the  pillory." 

"Don't !  You  have  no  right  to  judge.  What  can 
you  know  of  her?  You  say  this  was  five  years  ago. 
Perhaps  she  has  repented  and  is  trying  to  live  down 
what  she  did.  Are  you  going  to  rob  her  of  her  one 
chance — just  to  win  a  political  battle?" 

"Dear,"  he  said  gently,  "you  know  nothing  about 
^men  of  that  kind.  It's  mainly  in  story  books  that 
they  'try  to  live  down'  the  past.  In  real  life,  nine 
times  out  of  ten,  they  go  from  bad  to  worse.  Where 
one  woman  has  the  courage  and  the  character  to 
retrieve  a  false  step,  fifty  haven't.  Most  people  real- 
ize that.  That's  why  they  blame  the  man  who  is  the 
cause  of  the  first  step.  And  that  is  why  the  people 
will  repudiate  Standish  when  they  are  told  he  was 
the  cause — " 

"You  are  cruel !"  she  cried.   "You  yourself  admit 

237 


THE    WOMAN 

* 

that  there  is  a  chance  the  Woman  may  have  repented. 
Are  you  going  to  refuse  her  the  benefit  of  that 
chance  ?" 

"The  chance  is  too  small  to  be  considered.  Don't 
let's  talk  of  it.  You  can't — " 

"Then,"  she  continued,  unheeding,  "there's  some- 
thing else  you  don't  consider.  She  may  have  mar- 
ried. She  may  be  the  wife  of  some  honorable  man 
who  loves  her  and  thinks  she  is  perfect.  All  his 
heart  and  all  his  ideals  may  be  bound  up  in  her. 
Are  you  going  to  ruin  his  life,  too?" 

"Dear,"  sneered  Mark,  "the  sort  of  fool  who 
marries  women  of  that  kind  (like  the  man  who 
teaches  his  wife  to  be  a  'dead  game  sport')  deserves 
what  he  gets.  And  generally  he  gets  it.  Though, 
in  both  cases,  he  doesn't  always  find  it  out.  Don't 
waste  sympathy  on  him.  If  he  married  her  he  prob- 
ably knew  what  she  was.  If  he  didn't  know,  it's 
time  he  learned.  No  sane  man  should  want  to  live 
in  a  fool's  paradise." 

"But  her  family!  Her  parents?  Her  brothers  or 
sisters  ?  Surely  they  aren't  to  blame.  And  they  will 
be  disgraced,  too." 

238 


A   WASTED    PLEA 

"Such  things  are  rather  apt  to  run  in  families. 
Cankered  flowers  don't  grow  from  clean  roots. 
You're  wasting  a  lot  of  sympathy  over  a  woman  and 
a  man  who  are  unworthy  to  speak  your  dear  name. 
There  are  your  father  and  the  rest,  getting  out  of 
the  elevator  now.  Go  to  bed,  dear  girl,  and  try  to 
get  a  good  rest.  You're  looking  more  and  more 
fagged  out  every  moment.  We'll  try  not  to  talk 
loudly  enough  to  disturb  you.  Don't  sit  up  for  me. 
I'll  probably  be  up  all  night  on  this  Standish  affair. 
Good  night,  sweetheart." 

As  he  bent  to  kiss  her,  her  arms  clung  to  his  neck 
like  a  frightened  child's.  She  tried  to  speak,  faltered, 
and  hurried  from  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

SIXTY   SECONDS   LEEWAY 

IN  they  trooped,  Jim  Blake  at  their  head — Van 
Dyke,  Neligan,  Gregg,  and  (sulkily  bringing  up 
the  rear)  Tom.  Grace  had  quitted  the  library  at 
her  husband's  order.  And  kissing  her  good  night, 
with  a  parting  reiteration  of  her  need  for  a  sound 
sleep,  Mark  had  closed  the  door  behind  her. 

Now,  starkly  unashamed  of  the  eavesdropper's 
role,  Grace  Robertson  was  standing  tense,  expect- 
ant, her  ear  to  the  closed  door  leading  to  the 
inner  rooms.  Through  the  thin  panel  she  could  hear 
every  syllable  from  the  library.  Reckless  of  the 
chance  that  her  presence  might  be  detected  through 
a  possible  opening  of  the  door,  powerless  to  move 
or  to  do  aught  but  listen  with  strained  ears,  she 
crouched  there.  Her  own  name  was  the  first  word 
she  caught. 

"Grace  turned  in?"  Jim  Blake  was  asking;  and 

Robertson  replied: 

240 


SIXTY    SECONDS    LEEWAY 

"Yes.  She's  all  tired  out.  We  can  talk  freely 
here.  No  one  will  interrupt.  Sit  down.  The  cigars 
are  over  there.  And  here's  the  Scotch." 

"Has  Standish  been  around  yet?"  queried  Van 
Dyke. 

"Oh,  he'll  be  here  all  right,"  vouchsafed  Blake, 
before  Mark  could  answer.  "He  knows  we've  got 
him  in  a  hole.  He'll—" 

"But  have  we?"  argued  Van  Dyke.  "As  far  as  I 
can  see,  it's  still  the  other  way  around." 

"Don't  you  lose  sleep  over  that,"  counseled  Blake. 
"I'm  not  worried.  And  if  I'm  not,  there's  no  need 
for  you  boys  to  be.  I  wish  your  Wall  Street  crowd 
could  annex  all  the  worry  I  haven't  got.  Just  the 
same,  Van  Dyke,  when  you  get  back,  ask  them  what 
the  devil  they  mean  by  jamming  down  our  throats 
such  a  raw  proposition  as  the  Mullins  bill,  at  a  time 
like  this.  And  tell  them  they're  worse  idiots  than 
the  guy  who  killed  the  golden-egg  goose — " 

"I  think  I  see  myself  saying  that  to  the  old  man !" 
chuckled  Van  Dyke.  "He'd—" 

"Well,  I'll  say  it  to  him,"  growled  Blake.  "And 
if  he  doesn't  like  it  he  can — " 

241 


THE   WOMAN 

"In  the  meantime,"  hurriedly  interposed  Van 
Dyke,  to  check  any  further  expression  of  blasphemy 
against  his  golden  god,  "we're  held  up.  For  how 
much  longer?  There  isn't  a  minute  to  throw  away." 

""It's  bad  enough  to  be  delayed  by  anything," 
fumed  Mark.  "But  it's  ten  times  worse  when  we're 
blocked  by  a  damned  little — by  the  person  who  got 
this  information,"  he  corrected  himself,  catching 
a  warning  glint  from  Blake's  half-shut  eyes. 

"Whatever  the  price  is,"  suggested  Gregg,  "I  say : 
pay  it !  Pay  it  and  save  time." 

"No,"  contradicted  Blake,  his  glance  shifting  as 
if  by  accident  to  Tom.  "Her — the — the  price  is  too 
high." 

"Too  high  ?"  snorted  Neligan  on  whom  the  under- 
current of  Blake's  refusal  was  entirely  lost.  "It's 
the  first  time  we've  ever  economized." 

Before  Blake  could  reply  the  buzzer  sounded. 

"There's  Standish,  now,"  said  Jim.  "Maybe  he'll 
save  us  the  trouble  by  throwing  up  the  sponge — 
if  we  work  him  right.  Let  him  in,  Neligan.  Take 
the  lead  from  me,  all  of  you.  And  don't  disgrace 
me  by  acting  like  wild  asses  of  the  desert." 

242 


SIXTY    SECONDS    LEEWAY 

Neligan,  in  obedience  to  his  chief,  had  opened 
the  outer  door.  Standish,  after  a  quick  and  seem- 
ingly indifferent  look  that  itemized  the  room's  occu- 
pants, walked  forward.  Neligan  carefully  closed 
the  door  behind  him. 

The  men  nodded  stiffly,  uncomfortably,  in  re- 
sponse to  the  visitor's  slight  bow. 

"Good  evening,  gentlemen,"  said  Standish  pleas- 
antly. "This  setting  of  the  stage  seems  to  suggest 
Daniel  in  the  lions'  den.  I  hope  none  of  you  has 
made  the  error  of  casting  me  for  the  role  of  Daniel." 

Neligan's  lips  flew  apart  with  the  force  of  a  retort 
that  leaped  to  them.  But  the  words  were  never 
formulated.  For  Blake,  beaming  on  the  newcomer 
like  a  father  upon  his  dearest  loved  son,  exclaimed 
affectionately  : 

"Why,  how  are  you,  my  boy?  How  arc  you? 
Take  a  chair.  Neligan,  get  him  a — " 

"Thanks,"  declined  Standish.  "I  can  talk  better 
on  my  feet." 

"Oh !"  deprecated  Blake,  in  pathetic  disappoint- 
ment. "You've  come  to  talk?  I  was  hoping  you 
had  come  to — " 

243 


THE    WOMAN 

"To  lie  down  ?"  supplemented  Standish. 

"Well,"  answered  Blake  oracularly,  "the  man 
who  lies  down  can  get  up  again.  But  the  man  who 
is  knocked  down,  is  apt  to  take  the  count." 

"The  question  is  this,  Mr.  Standish,"  broke  in 
Mark,  impatient  at  his  father-in-law's  slower  method 
of  reaching  the  point.  "Will  you  support  us,  or  will 
you  not?" 

"I  will  not,"  returned  Standish. 

"Or  at  least  resign  your  leadership?" 

"No.    I  thought  we  had  settled  all  that." 

"Then,"  asked  Van  Dyke,  "you  are  prepared  to 
take  the  consequences,  Mr.  Standish  ?" 

"If  there  are  consequences — yes." 

"Oh,  there'll  be  consequences,  all  right,"  Blake  as- 
sured him.  "Hell's  full  of  'consequences'.  So  you 
won't  even  protect  the  Woman?" 

"You  haven't  found  her  yet." 

"No  ?"  smiled  Blake.  "Son,  I  told  you  there  was 
a  trap.  Well,  it  caught  her.  And  we'll  have  her 
name  in  half  an  hour  at  most.  Probably  sooner. 
If  you  think  that's  a  bluff,  you're  welcome  to.  But 
you've  only  a  half-hour  to  keep  on  thinking  it." 

244 


SIXTY    SECONDS    LEEWAY 

"Look  here,  gentlemen,"  said  Standish,  turning 
to  the  others.  "All  this  does  not  interest  me  in  the 
least.  I  came  here  to-night  for  just  one  reason — 
to  appeal  to  your  sense  of  justice." 

A  ripple  of  derision  from  his  hearers  stirred  his 
slow  voice  to  slightly  faster  measure. 

"You  can't  beat  me,"  he  went  on.  "And  you 
know  it  as  well  as  I  do.  I  am  secure.  But,  for  the 
sake  of  others,  I  ask  you  not  to  make  political  cap- 
ital out  of  something  in  my  private  life." 

Gregg's  loose  mouth  parted  in  a  grin.  Neligan 
laughed  aloud.  But  Mark  Robertson  could  see  no 
humor  in  the  situation. 

"You're  wrong,  Standish,"  he  declared.  "This 
scandal  will  beat  you." 

"Let  us  suppose,  for  argument's  sake,  that  it 
would,"  agreed  Standish.  "Can't  I  appeal  to  your 
honor?  Won't  you  fight  fairly?" 

"We'll  publish  the  truth,"  retorted  Mark.  "If 
that's  unfair." 

"It  is  unfair.    If  not  to  me,  then  to  the  Woman." 

"It  is  too  late  to  go  into  that  matter  now,  Mr. 
Standish.  Your  very  presence  here  to-night  is,  by 

245 


THE    WOMAN 

itself,  strong  proof  against  you;  if  further  proof 
were  needed." 

Standish  made  a  gesture  of  weary  impatience. 

"Proof?"  he  echoed.  "I  don't  deny  the  story. 
You  wouldn't  dare  use  it  if  you  couldn't  prove  it. 
But,  gentlemen,  there  comes  a  time — even  in  politics 
— when  we've  got  to  be  men  first  and  politicians 
afterward." 

"Then,"  suggested  Blake,  "be  a  man.  Give  up 
the  fight." 

"No,"  replied  Standish,  "I  won't  be  blackmailed. 
This  affair  was  over  and  done  with  before  I  asked 
the  people  to  accept  me  as  their  leader.  Long  be- 
fore. It  has  no  bearing  on  my  present  fitness." 

"That's  your  misfortune,"  sneered  Mark.  "The 
people  have  a  right  to  know  who  represent  them.  In 
the  newspaper  articles  we  have  prepared,  there  are 
no  facts  we  can  not  prove:  your  affair  with  the 
Woman — your  failure  to  carry  out  your  pledge  to 
marry  her — " 

"Then  the  story  is  written?"  exclaimed  Standish. 

"It  is  in  type,"  put  in  Van  Dyke,  "and  waiting 
our  word  to  send  it  out  to  the  whole  country." 

246 


SIXTY    SECONDS    LEEWAY 

"I  see,"  mused  Standish.  "And  I  see  how  such  a 
story  will  be  handled  in  print.  You'll  use  every  trick 
of  suggestion,  every  fact  inferring  a  lie — " 

"And,"  cried  Mark,  "it  will  beat  you.  It  will  beat 
you,  man — and  that's  what  we've  been  working  for, 
for  years." 

"I'm  not  beaten  yet,"  retorted  Standish.  "And 
I  advise  you,  Governor  Robertson,  to  be  careful — " 

"Oh,  we  shall  be  careful,"  returned  Van  Dyke. 
"The  proprietor  of  the  hotel  is  coming  to-night.  The 
hotel  where  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fowler  were  registered. 
We  may  not  need  him  to  identify  her.  But  he'll  be 
on  hand  in  case  we  do.  Take  my  word  for  it,  Mr. 
Standish,  you'll  save  a  great  deal  of  unnecessary 
trouble  if  you'll  quietly  step  down  and  out." 

"If  I  did,"  said  Standish,  "I  would  be  politically 
dead.  You  know  that." 

"You're  politically  dead,  anyway,"  insisted  Mark. 
"If  this  story  will  beat  you  to-night  it  will  beat  you 
twenty  years  from  to-day.  Particularly  if  this 
Woman  proves  to  be — what  shall  we  call  it? — a 
trifle  off  color?" 

"Robertson!" 

247 


THE   WOMAN 

"Ah!  That  hurts,  does  it?  Then  it's  probably 
true.  If  the  Woman  is  the  kind  that — that  would 
not  do  you  credit,  you  can  understand  how  much 
more  effective  it  will  be." 

"You  are  wrong!"  denied  Standish.  "She  is  of 
good  family.  She — " 

"She  may  have  been  a  good  woman  when  you 
found  her,"  said  Mark.  "But  there  must  have  been 
a  bad  streak  in  her,  somewhere.  And  it  will  have 
shown  before  now.  You  deserted  her.  You  left 
her  to  sink  as  low  as  I  expect  to  find  her  and — " 

"Drop  that,  Mark !"  burst  out  Torn  Blake,  jump- 
ing from  his  seat  and  confronting  his  brother-in-law. 
"Don't !  I  can't  listen  to  it  any  longer.  Standish  is 
right.  What  you  men  are  doing  is  vile.  If  you've 
got  a  scrap  of  manhood  left  in  the  whole  bunch  of 
you,  you  won't  drag  this  Woman  into  your  dirty 
schemes.  I — " 

"Oh,"  drawled  Blake  with  the  air  of  a  sleepy  man 
bothered  by  a  fly,  "for  the  love  of  Mike,  don't  you 
butt  in !  The  situation's  punk  enough  as  it  is,  with- 
out your  laying  your  trophies  of  idiocy  at  its  feet." 

"Idiocy?"  flared  Tom.  "Perhaps  common  decen- 
248 


SIXTY    SECONDS    LEEWAY 

cy's  a  better  term.  Or  perhaps  in  your  vocabulary 
the  two  mean  the  same  thing.  You  men  are  known 
as  political  leaders.  The  public  looks  to  you  for 
examples.  And  yet  you  stoop  to  a  currish  trick  like 
this !  Isn't  there  enough  whiteness  in  the  whole  lot 
of  you  for  a  single  voice  to  protest  against  such  use 
of  a  woman's  name?  You've  just  been  told  she's  of 
good  family.  That  she  has  a  name  to  lose.  And 
you  answer:  'Political  necessity!'  You  know  this 
story  will  destroy  at  least  two  lives.  Probably  sev- 
eral more.  And  again  you  answer :  'Political  neces- 
sity !'  You  have  the  power  to  ruin  these  lives.  If 
you  use  that  power,  I  tell  you  now,  one  and  all — my 
father  as  well  as  the  rest — I'm  ashamed  to  have 
breathed  the  same  air  with  you !" 

"Say!"  roared  Neligan.    "Look  here!    You'll—" 
"Sit  down,  Neligan,"  drawled  Blake.    "One  fool's 
enough  for  a  single  room." 

"This  isn't  a  debating  society,  Tom,"  added  Rob- 
ertson.   "We'll  do  as  we  think  best.    And— 
"Then,"  broke  in  Standish,  "I  warn  you — " 
But  Tom's  torrent  of  noisy  rage  had  not  yet 
exhausted  itself. 

249 


THE  WOMAN 

"I'm  through  with  the  lot  of  you!"  he  raged. 
"I've  stood  for  all  this  filthy  work  I'm  going  to. 
If  the  winners  have  to  use  such  means  as  these,  I'd 
rather  count  in  with  the  losers.  Mr.  Standish,  if 
this  foul  story  comes  out,  it  may  cost  you  some  sup- 
port, but  it  will  gain  you  mine.  And,  dad — " 

"Good  night,  Tom,"  drawled  Blake,  not  so  much 
as  troubling  to  glance  in  his  irate  son's  direction. 

"No,"  corrected  Tom,  "good-6;y." 

"It's  up  to  you,"  yawned  Blake. 

"Good-by!"  reiterated  Tom,  stamping  from  the 
room  and  slamming  the  outer  door  of  the  suite  be- 
hind him. 

The  others  stared  after  him  in  dull  wonder.  But 
an  exclamation  from  their  host  suddenly  shifted 
their  attention. 

"Grace!"  cried  Mark  in  surprised  disapproval. 

She  had  come,  unnoticed,  from  her  hiding-place 
behind  the  inner  door  and  was  standing  among  them 
before  they  were  aware  of  her  presence. 

"Mark !"  she  panted.  "I — I  heard  what  Tom  said. 
And  he  was  right.  You  must  not — " 

"Please  keep  out  of  this,  Grace,"  requested  her 
250 


SIXTY    SECONDS    LEEWAY 

husband  in  dire  embarrassment.     "You  don't  know 
anything  about  it.    You  couldn't  possibly — " 

"I  do,"  she  denied.     "I've  heard.     And—" 

"Grace,  dear  girl,"  soothed  Blake.  "This  is  muddy 
business  at  best.  It's  no  time  for  you  to  be  here. 
You'll  only  soil  those  pretty  hands  of  yours." 

"It  is  the  time  for  me  to  be  here !"  she  declared. 
"I  can  see  this  from  the  Woman's  standpoint.  You 
men  can't." 

"There  is  nothing  in  common  between  your  stand- 
point and  that  of  the  Woman  we  are  talking  about," 
protested  Mark. 

"Tom  was  right !"  she  persisted.  "You  must  not 
sink  to  using  this  story.  If — ' 

The  whirr  of  the  buzzer  interrupted  her.  At  such 
high  tension  were  they  all  that  the  sound  made  them 
turn  as  though  to  confront  a  physical  presence. 
Neligan  strode  to  the  door,  conferred  for  an  instant 
with  some  one  outside,  then  returned  with  a  slip  of 
blue  paper  in  his  hand. 

"The  duplicate  list  of  phone  numbers  from  cen- 
tral," he  announced,  turning  over  the  paper  to  Van 
Dyke. 

251 


THE    WOMAN 

"Good,"  approved  Blake.  "Now  we'll  get  to  what 
we're  chasing.  And  we'll  get  it  mighty  quick." 

Van  Dyke  and  Neligan  were  already  poring  over 
the  sheet  of  numbers  that  the  lawyer  had  just  spread 
on  the  table  under  the  lamp. 

"Now,  then,  Standish,"  exulted  Robertson;  "we're 
ready  to  begin.  One  of  these  numbers  leads  directly 
to  the  Woman.  We'll  put  a  man  to  work  tracing 
each  one  of  them.  In  a  few  hours  at  longest  we  will 
have  what  we  want.  And  when  we  find  the  Woman 
we'll  lay  bare  every  soiled  page  in  her  life  and  in 
yours.  If  the  story  turns  out  to  be  disgraceful  it 
won't  be  our  fault,"  he  added,  in  surly  apology  to 
Grace,  who  stood  staring  dumbly  at  the  numbered 
list  under  the  lamp-glare. 

It  was  Standish  who  broke  the  moment's  silence. 

"Very  well,  Robertson,"  he  said  calmly.  "I've 
done  what  I  promised  to  do.  And  I  have  failed. 
You  drive  me  now  to  the  use  of  your  own  weapons. 
I  shall  have  to  fight  exposure  with  exposure." 

"No,  no!"  moaned  Grace,  incoherent  with  fear. 

Mark  Robertson  had  caught  up  Standish's  de- 
fiance and  had  stepped  forward  to  confront  him. 

252 


SIXTY    SECONDS    LEEWAY 

"In  other  words,  Mr.  Standish,"  he  demanded, 
"you  threaten  me?  That's  an  empty  threat.  There 
is  nothing  in  my  life  you  have  not  already  shouted 
from  the  housetops." 

"Don't  be  too  sure,"  warned  Standish,  meeting 
Mark's  scornful  glare  with  unconcern. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?    Speak  up !" 

"Mr.  Standish!"  pleaded  Grace.    "I  beg—" 

"Don't  worry,  dear,"  said  Mark.  "Let  him  bluff. 
I'll  call  him.  Mr.  Standish,  I  give  you  full  permis- 
sion to  use  any  weapon  that  I  use.  If  you  know 
anything  against  me,  tell  it  here  and  now.  Here,  in 
my  wife's  presence.  You  know  our  cards.  Show 
yours." 

Standish's  gaze  strayed,  as  if  by  chance,  to 
Grace's  ghastly  face. 

"Well?"  urged  Mark.  "Speak  up!  We're  wait- 
ing!" 

At  sight  of  the  mortal  terror  in  Grace's  eyes, 
Standish  checked  the  words  that  were  on  his  lips, 
Turning  away  from  the  domineering  man  who  SG 
truculently  confronted  him,  he  muttered  : 

"I'll  choose  my  own  time !" 
253 


THE    WOMAN 

"I  thought  so!"  scoffed  Mark.  "You're  licked. 
This  is  your  last  fight.  From  to-night  you're  a  dead 
man,  politically.  And  if  we  have  to  hunt  out  a 
woman  or  two  to  keep  you  dead,  we'll  do  it." 

Van  Dyke  had  glanced  from  the  telephone  list  to 
his  watch. 

"We've  just  time  enough  to  catch  the  last  editions 
of  the  morning  papers,"  said  he.  "I  told  Jennings 
to  hold  a  wire  ready — " 

"What?"  exclaimed  Standish.  "You'll  go  ahead 
without  the  Woman's  name  ?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Van  Dyke.  "Since  we've  an 
absolute  certainty,  now,  of  getting  it.  We  can 
afford  to  do  that  and  publish  the  name  to-morrow. 
That  will  be  time  enough.  We're  in  time  for  New 
York  and  Boston  and  Chicago  and  St.  Louis.  Mark, 
get  the  Associated  Press  on  the  wire.  Tell  Jennings 
to  send  out  the  story.  Tell  him  we're  holding  the 
Woman's  name  and  that  we  won't  give  it  out  unless 
Standish  denies  the  story.  By  the  time  he  can  get 
his  denial  in  print  we'll  have  the  name." 

"Good !"  asserted  Robertson,  catching  up  the  tele- 
phone. "Hello !  Give  me — " 

254 


SIXTY    SECONDS    LEEWAY 

"Mark!"  begged  Grace.     "Oh,  I  implore  you— 
don't—" 

"4400  Main." 

"No,  no!"  reiterated  Grace  wildly,  turning  from 
him  to  Blake.  "Father!  You  won't  allow  this? 
Please !  For  my  sake — !" 

"Hello!"  Mark  was  calling  into  the  transmitter. 
"That  you,  Jennings?  This  is  Robertson.  Is  that 
Standish  story  ready?  All  right — Can  you  surely 
get  in  for  the  morning  papers  ? — Last  editions,  el)  ? 
— All  right — Yes — In  the  big  cities — What's  that  ?" 

"Mr.  Standish !"  appealed  Grace  brokenly. 

"Blake!"  exclaimed  Standish.  "You  don't  dare 
publish  that  story  without  the  Woman's  name." 

"In  less  than  five  minutes,"  retorted  Blake,  glan- 
cing at  the  clock,  "it'll  be  too  late  for  the  morning 
papers.  We'll  take  a  chance." 

"Remember !"  answered  Standish  with  sudden  ve- 
hemence, "I  warn  you — " 

"What's  that,  Jennings?"  Mark  was  calling  over 
the  wire.  "Yes.  I  tell  you  I  am  Robertson  and  I 
am  speaking  for  Mr.  Blake.  What  do  you  say  you 
want?  I  can't  catch  it?" 

255 


THE   WOMAN 

"Blake!"  continued  Standish.  "I  warn  you  I'll 
deny  the  story.  And  if  you  get  the  Woman's  name 
you'll—" 

"Deny  it,  will  you?"  drawled  Blake.  "Hell!  You 
haven't  time  to  get  a  wire  before  they  go  to  press. 
The  story '11  be  all  over  America  before  your  denial 
can  leave  Washington.  And  you  know  what  that 
means.  'Truth  crushed  to  earth  will  rise  again,' — 
but  before  it  gets  on  its  feet,  the  lie  that  knocked  it 
over  will  have  traveled  half  the  way  around  the 
world." 

"I  tell  you,"  Mark  was  roaring  into  the  transmit- 
ter, "that  I'm  speaking  on  Mr.  Blake's  authority. 
Oh,  all  right,  then !  Hold  the  wire.  Jim,"  he  went 
on,  turning  to  Blake,  "Jennings  says  he  won't  send 
out  that  story  without  your  personal  orders.  He 
knows  your  voice.  He  says  if  you'll  tell  him,  over 
the  phone,  that  it  is  all  right,  he'll  go  ahead.  Hurry. 
There's  only  about  a  minute  left." 

He  handed  the  instrument  across  the  table  to 
Blake. 

"Father!"  entreated  Grace,  seizing  Blake's  arm. 
"For  my  sake,  you  mustn't — " 

256 


SIXTY   SECONDS   LEEWAY 

"Grace!"  snapped  Blake.  "I'm  plumb  ashamed 
of  you.  You're  acting  like  a  sick  schoolgirl.  Go  to 
your  room.  Hello,  Jennings!  This  is  Blake — 
Hello—" 

"Hold  on,  Blake!"  ordered  Standish.  "I'll  give; 
you  her  name.  She — " 

"Wait!"  screamed  Grace,  beside  herself  with  pain 
and  fear. 

"Hello!"  Blake  was  calling  wrathfully.  "Hello! 
What  in  blue  blazes  is  the  matter?  You've  cut  us 
off,  central.  'Wire  won't  work?'  I  tell  you  it's  got 
to  work! — Hey? — What's  that? — 'Out  of  order?' — 
And  I  haven't  sixty  seconds  to  wait!  I  must! — 
What? — Oh,  a  lot  of  good  your  being  sorry  does! — 
Say! — Who  am  I  talking  to,  anyway? — Miss  Kelly? 
Well— I'll  be—!" 

Blake  dropped  the  receiver  on  to  its  hook  and  set 
down  the  instrument  with  the  most  profane  bang 
ever  heard.  "A  damn  without  words,"  Neligan  aft- 
erward called  it.  Jim  glanced  again  at  his  watch. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  announced  with  dangerous  calm, 
"we're  too  late.  Miss  Kelly  has  seen  fit  to  interfere. 
They'll  have  gone  to  press  by  now." 

257 


THE   WOMAN 

"Mr.  Standish,"  cut  in  Van  Dyke's  suave  voice, 
"you  were  about  to  say — ?" 

"I've  changed  my  mind,"  replied  Standish,  with 
a  covert  glance  at  Grace,  who  was  leaning  for  sup- 
port on  a  corner  of  the  desk.  "Good  night,  gentle- 
men." 

He  left  the  suite.  Grace,  more  dead  than  alive, 
made  her  way  blindly  across  the  library  to  the  door 
leading  to  her  own  rooms. 

The  others  stood  staring  at  one  another.  Down- 
stairs Wanda  Kelly  smiled  beatifically  to  herself  and 
fluffed  out  a  strand  of  her  hair  that  had  strayed  over 
her  forehead. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

PREPARING  THE  GRILL 

|"  N  the  dumb  disappointment  that  fell  over  the 
•*•  group  in  Mark  Robertson's  library,  the  men's 
eyes  gradually  turned  as  by  common  consent  upon 
Jim  Blake.  Unruffled,  he  stood  there,  master  of 
them  all  and  even  master  of  himself. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  drawled  at  last,  "we've  got  our 
work  cut  out  for  us.  We've  missed  the  morning 
papers.  Now,  it  remains  to  get  our  story  on  the 
floor  of  the  house  to-night.  To  force  adjournment. 
That  will  give  us  time." 

"But,"  objected  Van  Dyke,  pointing  to  the  dupli- 
cate telephone  list,  "we  can't  get  those  numbers 
traced  until  to-morrow.  And  we've  got  to  get  the 
name  before  we  dare  spread  the  story  in  the  house. 
It  was  different  with  the  newspapers.  But — " 

"We  shall  get  the  Woman's  name  in  the  next 
hour,"  Blake  assured  him. 

"How?" 

259 


THE   WOMAN 

i 

"Through  the  only  person  left  who  can  tell  us 
what  the  right  number  is.  The  phone  girl  who 
interfered  with  our  wire  just  now.  Neligan,  go 
down  and  tell  Perry  I  want  to  see  Miss  Kelly  up 
here  at  once.  Bring  her  up,  yourself.  Now,  then, 
Mark,"  as  Neligan  departed  on  his  errand,  "it's  up 
to  you.  If  the  house  knows  we've  got  the  goods  on 
Standish,  fully  twenty  men  like  Gregg,  here,  will 
weaken  and  vote  for  us.  And  then  we  can  jam  the 
bill  through.  Get  this  Woman's  name.  Find  the 
number  we  want.  You've  got  the  reputation  of  be- 
ing the  best  cross-examiner  at  the  New  York  bar. 
Show  you  deserve  that  reputation.  Take  this  tele- 
phone girl  and  turn  her  brains  inside  out.  She 
knows  the  number  that  will  lead  to  the  Woman. 
You've  got  to  get  it  from  her.  Don't  handle  her 
with  gloves  or  be  afraid  of  making  her  cry.  It's 
life  or  death  for  us  to  know  that  number." 

"If  the  number's  in  her  brain,"  promised  Mark 
readily,  "I'll  get  it  out." 

He  moved  to  his  big  study  chair,  at  the  far  end  of 
the  table,  turned  on  the  drop-light  above  his  head 
and  seated  himself. 

260 


PREPARING   THE    GRILL 

"That's  right,"  approved  Blake,  noting  the  magis- 
terial pose  and  setting.  "Boys,  let  Mark  do  the  talk- 
ing. He  can  do  it.  I've  heard  him  make  women 
witnesses  tell  their  real  ages.  If  the  insurgents  had 
had  him  in  charge  of  their  investigations  they'd  have 
got  us  all  in  jail  long  ago." 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  Gregg  answered 
it.  Neligan  entered,  all  but  shoving  Wanda  Kelly 
in  ahead  of  him. 

"Here  she  is,"  he  reported. 

Leaving  her  standing  there,  he  turned  and  osten- 
tatiously closed  the  door  behind  him. 

The  girl  looked  about  at  the  faces  that  confronted 
her  on  every  side.  Then  she  smiled.  It  was  the 
peaceful  smile  of  the  kitten  that  has.  just  emptied 
the  cream  jug.  In  her  throat  her  heart  was  ham- 
mering to  strangulation. 

Mark  Robertson,  from  his  place  at  the  head  of  the 
table,  was  the  first  to  speak.  His  voice  was  quiet, 
his  manner  courteous. 

"This  is  Miss  Kelly?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  demure  Wanda  in  her 
most  respectful — and  unnatural — shop-girl  accents. 

261 


THE   WOMAN 

"Miss  Kelly,"  resumed  Mark,  "you  are  the  tele- 
phone operator,  down-stairs  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"You  were  at  the  switchboard  a  few  minutes 
ago?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Sit  down,  my  dear  girl !"  beamed  Blake  tenderly, 
as  he  indicated  the  chair  that  had  been  placed  for 
her.  "We  would  like  to  ask  you  a  few  questions, 
if  you  don't  object." 

"Yes,  sir." 

Wanda  seated  herself  on  the  edge  of  the  chair 
and  looked  around  her  with  an  expression  of  awed 
interest  that  was  worse  than  irritating.  The  other 
men  had  seated  themselves:  Gregg,  Van  Dyke  and 
Neligan  near  Mark ;  Jim  Blake  on  the  far  side  of  the 
room. 

Midway  between  Blake  and  Robertson,  Wanda 
sat — waiting.  And,  on  the  other  side  of  the  closed 
door  leading  from  the  farther  recesses  of  the  suite, 
Grace  listened,  breathless. 


CHAPTER  XX 


THE   THIRD   DEGREE 


"1VT  ISS    KELLY'" 

•••*•*•  minute  of  a  silence  that  bit  into  Wanda's 
very  nerves,  "you  say  you  were  at  the  switchboard 
down-stairs  a  few  moments  ago?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"While  I  was  talking  to  the  Associated  Press 
office?" 

"How  can  I  tell,  sir?"  she  asked  with  smiling 
helplessness.  "You  know  we're  not  allowed  to  lis- 
ten to  conversations  over  the  wire." 

"But  you  connected  me  when  I  called  up  4400 
Main  just  now  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,  sir." 

"H'm!  You  remember  that,  do  you?  Well,  that 
is  the  number  of  the  Associated  Press  office.  I 
called  up  Jennings,  the  manager.  I  talked  with  him 

263 


THE   WOMAN 

a  minute.     Then  he  wanted  to  speak  with   Mr. 
Blake." 

"Yes,  sir?"  asked  Wanda,  who  had  been  follow- 
ing his  recital  with  the  wide-eyed  delighted  interest 
of  a  child  listening  to  a  wondrous  fairy  tale. 

"Mr.  Blake  took  the  telephone  instrument  from 
my  hands,"  pursued  Mark,  unheeding,  "and  spoke 
into  it." 

Wanda  turned  slowly  and  gazed  upon  Blake  in 
pleased  amazement  that  he  could  have  performed  so 
sensational  a  feat  as  Mark  had  just  described.  Then 
she  looked  back  at  Mark  as  though  unwilling  to  miss 
a  single  word  of  such  an  enthralling  narrative. 

"But,"  continued  Mark,  "when  he  tried  to  speak 
to  Jennings  he  found  the  connection  had  suddenly 
been  severed." 

"Oh!" 

There  was  a  world  of  sympathetic  regret  in  her 
exclamation. 

"He  was  told,"  said  Mark  slowly,  "he  was  told— 
by  you,  Miss  Kelly — that  the  line  was  out  of  order." 

"Oh,  yes!"  she  cried  brightly.    "And  that  must 
264 


THE   THIRD    DEGREE 

have  been  why  the  connection  was  cut  off.   What  a 
shame !    Just  when  he  wanted  to  talk,  too !" 

"Miss  Kelly,  how  long  have  you  been  a  telephone 
operator?" 

"Nearly  five  years,  sir,"  simpered  Wanda,  giving 
her  hearers  a  fair  sample  of  employment-agency 
manner. 

"Then,"  said  Mark,  with  a  swift  change  of  man- 
ner, "you  are  enough  of  an  expert  to  know  that  the 
line  was  not  'out  of  order',  just  now  ?" 

"Wasn't  it?"  she  queried  in  profound  disappoint- 
ment. "It — it  wouldn't  work." 

"It  was  working,"  denied  Mark.  "It  was  work- 
ing when  the  connection  was  broken.  And  broken 
at  your  desk,  Miss  Kelly,  as  your  voice  showed." 

"My  voice,  sir?  Why,  I  just  cut  in  to  find  out 
what  the  trouble  was." 

"I  see.  The  line  was  out  of  order  and  you  cut  in 
to  find  out  what  the  trouble  was.  Very  kind.  And, 
of  course,  you  are  quite  certain  the  line  was  out  of 
order?" 

"Oh,  quite  certain,  sir,"  she  told  him  with  a  re- 
assuring smile. 

265 


THE    WOMAN 

"I  suppose,"  said  Mark  carelessly,  "if  the  line  had 
got  out  of  order,  the  manager's  office  would  know  of 
it  by  this  time  ?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

"Very  good,"  reaching  for  the  instrument.  "I'll 
call  up  the  manager  and  ask  about  it." 

"Oh,  no !"  she  exclaimed,  momentarily  off  guard. 
"It's — it's  probably  all  right  again  by  now." 

"Very  likely,"  was  Mark's  dry  assent.  "Then 
you  don't  want  me  to  call  up  the  manager?" 

"Don't  bother  to  do  that,"  she  faltered  in  con- 
fusion. "I — I  might  possibly  have  knocked  out  the 
plug — by  accident." 

"And  you  might  possibly  have  done  it  on  pur- 
pose," retorted  Mark. 

"I?"  she  asked,  astounded.  "Why  should  I  do 
such  a  foolish  thing  as  that?" 

"That's  what  we're  going  to  find  out.  If  it  had 
been  an  accident,  you  would  have  shoved  the  plug 
back  into  place,  immediately,  when  we  told  you. 
Isn't  that  true?" 

"I  s'pose  so,"  she  admitted  sulkily. 
266 


THE   THIRD    DEGREE 

"Then,  Miss  Kelly,  we  are  forced  to  believe  that 
you  deliberately  refused  to  transmit  our  message." 

"You  can  believe  anything  you  want  to,"  she  re- 
turned spitefully.  "I  don't  care  what  you  believe!" 

The  line  of  questioning  had  thrown  her  off  her 
carefully  prepared  line  of  defense.  She  had  ex- 
pected merely  an  attempt — more  or  less  bullying — 
to  gain  from  her  the  secret  of  the  number  she  had 
promised  not  to  reveal.  And,  while  massing  her 
forces  to  guard  against  such  an  effort,  she  had  been 
attacked  and  stormed  at  a  totally  undefended  quar- 
ter. Angry,  confused,  she  tossed  aside  her  useless 
weapons  and  was  for  the  instant  merely  a  worried 
and  much-badgered  little  girl. 

"Come  to  the  point,"  urged  Mark,  reading  her  as 
a  printed  book.  "Will  you  answer  my  question  or 
will  you  not  ?" 

"I  don't  see  why  I  should,"  she  muttered. 

"You  will  before  you're  through,"  dryly  promised 
Blake. 

"I'm  going!"  she  declared,  getting  wrathfully  to 
her  feet  and  making  for  the  door.  "I'm  not  going 
to  stay  here  to — " 

267 


THE   WOMAN 

Neligan  unobtrusively  moved  his  huge  bulk  be- 
tween her  and  the  door,  while  Blake  interposed, 
without  a  trace  of  command  in  his  voice,  but  as 
though  stating  a  simple  truth : 

"You  can't  leave  this  room  till  you've  told  us 
what  we  want  to  know.  And  we  won't  stand  for 
any  more  freshness  or  acting.  Go  ahead,  Mark." 

"Is  it  not  true,"  repeated  Robertson  in  measured 
query,  "that  you  deliberately  refused  to  transmit  our 
message  just  now?" 

"I  s'pose  so,"  she  vouchsafed.  "I  butted  in.  And 
now  I  guess  I've  got  to  take  my  medicine." 

"And,"  asked  Mark,  "do  you  happen  to  realize 
what  that  medicine  is?" 

"Oh,  I  know,  all  right.    I'll  lose  my  job." 

"Exactly.  And  you  don't  want  to  lose  your  job, 
do  you,  Miss  Kelly  ?" 

"No,  I  don't.    I  need  the  money." 

"I  see.  Quite  so.  You  need  the  money.  Miss 
Kelly,  Mr.  Blake  has  offered  you  a  great  deal  of 
money  for  a  certain  bit  of  information,  hasn't  he?" 

"Yes.     But— Oh,  what's  the  use?    You  can  get 

me  fired.  But  I  guess  I  can  find  another  job!" 

268 


THE   THIRD    DEGREE 

"It  may  not  be  necessary,"  suggested  Mark. 
"Miss  Kelly,  we  don't  want  to  harm  your  prospects 
in  any  way.  We  wish  merely  to  show  you  tliat  it 
is  to  your  interest  to  work  for  us.  Mr.  Blake  has 
told  you  how  necessary  it  is  for  us  to  gain  the  infor- 
mation that  you  alone  can  give  us.  He  will  pay  you 
well.  We  have  asked  you  to  come  up  here  to-night  to 
find  out  whether  you  will  not  accept  this  offer." 

"Well,"  simpered  Wanda,  her  old  alert,  resource- 
ful self  once  more,  now  that  the  attack  had  shifted 
to  the  field  where  her  defenses  were  awaiting  it,  "I 
— I  need  time,  you  see.  Time  to  think  it  over — and 
—and—" 

"Time,"  returned  Mark,  "is  the  one  thing  we  can 
not  give  you." 

"You  can't?"  she  asked  in  sad  surprise. 

"No,  we  can't,"  snarled  Blake  from  his  far  corner. 
"And  you  knew  damn  well  we  couldn't  when  you 
cut  off  our  wire." 

Wanda  looked  from  one  to  the  other  in  the  pained 
disapproval  of  a  kitten  whose  paws  have  been 
drenched.  Then  she  sighed  and  leaned  back  in  her 
chair  as  though  too  tired  to  argue  further. 

269 


THE    WOMAN 

"Well,"  she  inquired  in  weary  patience,  "what  is 
it  you  want  me  to  tell  you?" 

"We  want  you,"  replied  Mark,  "to  tell  us  a  num- 
ber called  up  by  Mr.  Standish  early  this  evening." 

He  paused  for  her  answer.  The  others  leaned 
forward.  Gregg,  with  unconscious  throwback  to 
early  camp-meeting  days  in  Kansas,  put  one  cupped 
hand  behind  his  ear. 

Wanda  alone  was  unconcerned.  She  was  twisting 
the  little  bracelet  on  her  wrist  and  eying  it  with 
new  and  happily  absorbed  interest  from  a  dozen  suc- 
cessive points  of  view. 

"Miss  Kelly,"  demanded  Mark,  "will  you  tell 
us  that  number  or  will  you  not  ?" 

"Why,"  answered  Wanda  with  a  charmingly  fool- 
ish smile  of  crass  helplessness,  "I  really  don't  think 
I  can  remember  it." 

"I  think  you  can,"  contradicted  Mark.  "You 
knew  beforehand,  from  Mr.  Blake,  how  much  de- 
pended on  it.  You  surely  remember." 

"That's  so,"  acceded  Wanda,  seeming  to  grasp  the 
strength  of  his  argument  as  by  inspiration.  "I 
surely  must.  But,  you  see,  it's  against  the  rules  to 

270 


THE    THIRD    DEGREE 

tell.  Oh,  gentlemen,"  she  cried  longingly,  "I'd  just 
love  to  help  you  out.  Anything  I  could  do.  Any- 
thing at  all.  But  we're  not  allowed  to  give  any  in- 
formation like  this.  Oh,  how  I  wish — !" 

"If  you  were  allowed,  then,"  asked  Mark,  "you'd 
do  it,  wouldn't  you  ?" 

"That'd  be  different,  of  course,"  she  smiled.  "But 
you  see  how  I'm  fixed — " 

"That's  too  bad!"  mused  Mark.  "Of  course  we 
can't  ask  you  to  break  the  company's  rules.  But  if 
it  were  not  against  rules,  you'd  do  it,  would  you?" 

"Oh,  in  a  second !  I'd  be  ever  so  glad  to ;  but,  you 
see,  orders  are  orders.  And — " 

"And,"  chimed  in  Mark,  "luckily  we  knew  how 
faithful  you  are  to  your  employers.  And,  as  we  an- 
ticipated your  objections,  we  took  the  trouble  to  re- 
move all  such  difficulties  from  your  path.  Here," 
taking  a  paper  from  a  heap  on  the  table,  "is  an  order 
from  your  general  manager,  authorizing  you  to  give 
us  all  the  help  in  your  power.  Does  that  remove 
your  scruples?" 

For  an  instant  she  sat  genuinely  dumfounded. 
One  by  one  her  defenses  were  being  shorn  away. 

271 


THE   WOMAN 

These  men,  against  whom  she  found  herself  pitted, 
had  foreseen  everything,  had  allowed  for  every  turn 
of  her  agile  brain.  Their  knowledge  struck  her  as 
almost  uncanny.  With  a  great  effort  she  strove  to 
rally  her  pitiful  little  forces  to  meet  the  new  on- 
slaught. 

"May  I  see  that  order,  sir  ?"  she  asked  timidly. 

"Certainly,"  said  Mark,  handing  the  paper  across 
to  her. 

Slowly,  as  she  looked,  a  frown  of  painful  perplex- 
ity creased  her  forehead.  She  seemed  to  find  the 
briefly-phrased  typewritten  words  as  hard  to  read  as 
a  cryptogram.  Then,  with  a  little  impatient  laugh 
at  her  own  stupidity,  she  seemed  to  perceive  for  the 
first  time  that  she  was  holding  the  page  upside  down. 
Deliberately  righting  it,  she  began  all  over  again  her 
task  of  reading  it.  With  snail-like  slowness  and 
with  moving  lips  she  deciphered  each  word.  Then 
she  read  it  all  over  and  again  a  third  time. 

"Yes,"  she  said  at  last,  returning  the  sheet  to  the 
fuming  cross-examiner,  "it  really  seems  to  be  all 
right." 

"Now,  Miss  Kelly,"  pressed  Mark,  "are  you  pre- 
272 


THE    THIRD    DEGREE 

pared  to  take  the  responsibility  of  disobeying  your 
manager's  commands  ?  Or  will  you  tell  us  what  we 
ask?" 

"But,"  babbled  Wanda,  in  a  peculiarly  annoying 
and  whining  tone  of  irresolution,  "d'you  think  it'd 
be  square  for  me  to  tell?  Ought  I  to  give  away  a 
customer's  secrets?  Now,  honest,  Governor  Robert- 
son, don't  you  think  it'd  be  kind  of  mean  of  me? 
Don't  you?" 

"Hell !"  exploded  Jim  Blake.  "The  girl's  kidding 
you,  Mark!" 

"Please!"  sternly  interposed  Mark,  raising  his 
hand  to  silence  Blake's  impending  torrent  of  abuse. 

His  father-in-law  sank  back,  muttering.  And 
Robertson,  turning  back  to  Wanda,  resumed  in  his 
most  conciliatory  manner: 

"Come,  Miss  Kelly !  Don't  force  us  to  use  harsh 
measures.  You  help  us — and  we  will  help  you.  And 
if—" 

"Oh,  Governor  Robertson,"  gushed  Wanda, 
"that's  ever  and  ever  so  kind  of  you!  You  don't 
know  how  a  poor  discouraged  working  girl  appreci- 
ates such — " 

273 


THE   WOMAN 

"Miss  Kelly !"  rapped  Mark,  "I  advise  you  to  be 
careful!  You  say  your  position  is  of  value  to 
you — " 

"Of  course,  sir.  But  I  can't  bear  to  hurt  your 
feelings  by  refusing  anything  you  gentlemen  ask." 

Another  start  from  Blake  was  checked  by  a  quick 
glance  from  his  son-in-law.  Then  Robertson  con- 
tinued : 

"I  asked  you  a  few  minutes  ago  if  you  were  pre- 
pared to  assume  full  responsibility  for  disobeying 
your  manager's  order?  Are — ?" 

"First,"  she  exclaimed  remorsefully,  "I  want  to 
tell  you  all  how  awfully  sorry  I  am  that  I  interfered 
with  your  telephone  talk  a  while  ago.  I  don't  know 
what  made  me  do  such  an — an — impolite  thing. 
Really,  I  don't.  Sometimes,  you  know,  I  act  so 
strange  that  I'm  almost  frightened  at  myself.  I 
wish—" 

"We  will  take  that  up  presently,  Miss  Kelly.  Un- 
less you  want  to  make  everything  all  right  now,  by 
helping  us.  Will  you  tell  us  that  number?" 

"Oh,  sir,  it  doesn't  seem  quite  fair  for  me  to  do  a 
thing  like  that.  At  least  it  doesn't  seem  so  to  me. 

274 


THE    THIRD    DEGREE 

But,  of  course,  you  know  more  about  right  and 
wrong  than  a  poor — " 

"Come  to  the  point,  please!"  reiterated  Mark. 
"Will  you  tell  us  or  won't  you  ?" 

"Oh,  then,"  she  broke  down  weakly,  "I  s'pose  I'd 
better  tell  you." 

Her  surrender  snapped  the  tension.  Blake  nodded 
grim  approval.  The  other  listeners  relaxed.  Even 
Robertson's  hard  mouth  softened  in  exultation. 

"That's  right !"  applauded  Mark.  "You  won't  be 
sorry  for  it." 

"But  understand  one  thing,"  stipulated  Wanda 
with  shrill  insistence :  "I  won't  take  any  money  for 
telling  you.  Not  one  cent." 

"We  can  arrange  that  later,"  broke  in  Blake.  "Go 
ahead." 

She  looked  at  him  in  open-eyed  interest.  And 
when  lie  ceased  to  speak  she  still  gazed  as  if  hungry 
to  hear  more. 

"Well,"  asked  Mark,  "what  was  the  number?" 

"The  number?"  echoed  Wanda  absently. 

Her  face  grew  thoughtful,  then  puzzled.  Her 
eyes  rolled  about  the  room  as  if  seeking  something 

275 


THE   WOMAN 

that  eluded  her  brain.  She  clasped  her  hand  to  her 
brow  in  a  strikingly  dramatic  struggle  for  memory. 
Then  she  murmured  apologetically,  sweeping  the  cir- 
cle with  an  air  of  plaintive  regret : 

"Now,  that's  queer!  Would  you  believe  it,  I  had 
that  number  on  the  very  tip  of  my  tongue!  Not 
three  minutes  ago!  And  all  those  questions  of  yours 
have  driven  it  clean  out  of  my  head.  Let  me  see, 
now!  What  was  the  number?" 

Another  quite  frightful  spasm  of  unsuccessful 
search  in  the  recesses  of  a  mazed  brain.  Then  she 
shook  her  head  and  looked  at  Robertson  in  despair. 

"Was  it  a  district  number?"  queried  Mark,  his 
face  giving  no  sign  of  anything  but  desire  to  refresh 
her  memory. 

"Oh,  yes!"  cried  Wanda,  her  eyes  brightening. 
"A  district  number.  Yes.  I  remember  that  it  was 
a  district  number." 

"What  exchange?" 

A  further  futile  ransacking  of  the  mind. 

"Was  it  Main?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Cleveland?" 

276 


THE   THIRD    DEGREE 

"N-no." 

"Takoma?" 

"Yes!  Yes!  It's  all  come  back  to  me  now,  sir. 
It  was  Takoma.  That  was  it.  Takoma.  678  Ta- 
koma!" 

"678  Takoma,"  repeated  Mark,  while  Van  Dyke 
ran  a  searching  finger  down  the  list  he  held.  "You 
are  quite  sure,  Miss  Kelly,  that  it  was  678  Takoma?" 

"Oh,  yes,  indeed!"  Wanda  assured  him  in  eager 
triumph.  "678  Takoma.  I  remember — " 

"It  wasn't  876  Takoma?" 

"Oh,  no,  sir.    678." 

Mark  glanced  at  Van  Dyke,  who  shook  his  head. 
The  cross-examiner's  tone  grew  all  at  once  as  cold 
as  death. 

"You  have  been  playing  with  us  long  enough, 
Miss  Kelly,"  said  he.  "I  let  it  go  on  until  I  was  cer- 
tain you  meant  to  lead  us  on  a  wild-goose  chase. 
Now,  if  you  please,  we'll  get  down  to  business!" 

"Why?"  asked  Wanda  in  marveling  innocence. 
"Wasn't  that  number  the  right  one,  after  all  ?" 

"No.  And  you  knew  it  was  not.  No  such  num- 
ber was  called  from  this  hotel." 

277 


THE   WOMAN 

"Oh !  Then  you  got  the  duplicate  slips  from  cen- 
tral? Perhaps,  if  you'd  let  me  look  over  them,  I 
could—" 

"Could  send  us  on  the  wrong  track?  I  have  no 
doubt  you  could.  No,  thank  you.  You  see,  we  can 
investigate  these  numbers  without  you.  It's  merely 
a  question  of  investigating  each  of  them  and — " 

"Then,"  demanded  Wanda,  "why  did  you  bother 
to  ask  me?" 

"To  save  time." 

"Oh !    And  we've  been  saving  time,  have  we,  sir?" 

"No,"  he  returned  with  ominous  calm,  "we 
haven't.  But  we've  found  out  exactly  where  you 
stand  in  the  matter,  Miss  Kelly.  We — " 

"Then,"  flashed  Wanda,  shaking  her  manifold 
affectations  from  her  like  a  garment,  "then  you 
know  I  won't  tell.  And  if  I  don't,  you  know  you 
can't  find  out.  You  haven't  time.  You  said  so 
yourself.  You've  only  got  a  few  hours  at  most. 
And  before  you  can  strike  another  trail  the  Woman 
will  be  on  her  guard !" 

"You  state  the  case  very  clearly,  Miss  Kelly," 
278 


THE    THIRD    DEGREE 

agreed  Mark,  unruffled.  "You  have  evidently  given 
the  matter  some  thought.  By  preventing  us  from 
using  the  morning  papers,  you  force  us  to  get  our 
information  for  the  house,  to-night.  What  is  your 
motive  in  all  this?  Isn't  our  price  high  enough?" 

"That's  not  it." 

"Do  you  think,  perhaps,  that  you  can  go  to  the 
Woman  and  get  a  bigger  price  ?" 

"A  swell  chance  I'd  stand!"  sneered  Wanda. 
"Don't  you  suppose  I  know  the  minute  I  leave  this 
room  I'll  be  shadowed?" 

Mark  glowered  at  her  in  silence.  Then  he  picked 
up  the  list  that  Van  Dyke  had  just  laid  down. 

"Many  of  these  numbers,"  he  said,  half  to  himself, 
"can  be  eliminated  at  once.  For  instance,  here's  my 
own  call  to  New  York — 1001  Plaza — " 

"They've  charged  you  for  two  calls,  Mark,"  com- 
mented Van  Dyke,  glancing  at  the  list  over  Robert- 
son's shoulder.  "See?  Plaza  1001 — twice.  One  di- 
rectly under  the  other." 

"Yes,"  said  Mark,  "they  must  have  repeated  it  in 
copying  the  list.  That  makes  two  less  for  us  to  look 

279 


THE   WOMAN 

up.  We'll  trace  the  number  we  want,  sooner  or  latei . 
Why  won't  you  be  sensible,  Miss  Kelly,  and  talk 
terms?" 

"Because  I  don't  like  the  work.  It  looks  too  rank 
for  any  one  but  a  statesman.  I'm  not  to  be  bought 
for  that  kind  of — " 

"I  see,"  said  Mark  reflectively.  "Now  let  us  get 
back  to  the  other  matter:  to  your  interference  with 
our  wire." 

He  hesitated,  leaned  across  to  Van  Dyke  and 
whispered.  Van  Dyke  nodded,  rose  and  crossed  to 
a  case  tiered  ceiling-high  with  law  books. 

"You  spoke  just  now,  Miss  Kelly,"  continued 
Robertson,  "of  taking  your  medicine.  And  I  asked 
you  if  you  knew  what  sort  of  medicine  it  might  be." 

"Don't  rub  it  in,"  she  snapped.  "I'm  going  to  lose 
my  job.  Let  it  go  at  that.  A  bunch  of  the  nation's 
representative  men  have  combined,  in  an  all-night 
session,  to  throw  a  telephone  operator  out  of  work. 
And  they've  succeeded.  We'll  take  that  for  granted. 
I'll  leave  you  to  do  your  celebrating  of  the  mighty 
victory  without  me.  I'm  going.  I  congratulate  you 
all.  You've  lost  the  Mullins  bill  fight.  But,  instead, 

280 


THE   THIRD   DEGREE 

you've  won  in  your  great  fight  to  make  me  lose  my 
job.  That  ought  to  help  some.  And  it  proves  that 
even  if  you  can't  lick  a  man  like  Standish  you're 
still  live  wires." 

"One  moment,  Miss  Kelly,"  intervened  Mark, 
opening  the  calfskin  volume  Van  Dyke  had  just 
brought  him  from  the  book-shelves.  "You  spoke  of 
losing  your  job.  I'm  afraid  that  isn't  all  you'll  lose." 

"No,"  she  agreed,  "I'll  lose  the  blood  money  I 
could  have  raked  in  if  I'd  sold  you  the  Woman's 
name." 

"And  your  liberty." 

"My— my— what?" 

"Your  liberty,  Miss  Kelly,"  repeated  Mark,  eying 
the  startled  girl  with  stormy  unconcern. 

She  whitened  ever  so  little  and  into  her  big  eyes 
came  a  quick  shadow  like  that  in  the  eyes  of  a  cor- 
nered and  outmaneuvered  wild  thing.  But  she 
threw  off  the  grip  of  fear  and  laughed  impudently 
into  her  inquisitor's  stolid  face. 

"Say!"  she  grated.  "D'you  think  I'm  going  to 
fall  for  a  bluff  like  that  ?  I'm  not  Looloo-From-the- 

281 


THE   WOMAN 

Tall-Timber.  And  I  don't  screech  every  time  I  see 
a  cop.  Lose  my  'liberty',  hey?" 

"Yes,  Miss  Kelly,"  said  Mark  gravely,  "your  lib- 
erty." 

And  again  his  words,  coupled  with  his  quiet  as- 
surance of  being  in  the  right,  fanned  to  life  that  dull 
fear  in  her  heart. 

"You  mighty  finance  jugglers  live  so  long  on  the 
razor  edge  of  jail,"  she  scoffed  with  a  bravado  that 
somehow  would  not  ring  true,  "that  you  ought  to 
be  experts  on  all  the  stunts  people  can  be  locked  up 
for.  But  this  time  the  bluff's  too  thin.  You  can't 
put  me  into  prison  just  for  knocking  out  a  phone 
plug,  and  you  know  it." 

Robertson  did  not  answer  at  once.  Indeed,  he  did 
not  seem  to  hear.  He  was  turning  the  pages  of  the 
law  book  before  him.  Presently  he  found  what  he 
wanted. 

"Miss  Kelly,"  he  said,  "as  a  telephone  operator, 
you  must  have  had  your  attention  called  to  Section 
641  of  the  Penal  Code.  Have  you  not  ?" 

"Yes,"  she  returned  defiantly,  "I  have." 
282 


THE    THIRD    DEGREE 

"Then,"  resumed  Mark  in  the  manner  of  a  magis- 
trate of  the  old  school,  "you  must  realize  that  by  re- 
fusing, as  an  operator,  to  transmit  our  message  over 
the  telephone,  you  broke  the  law." 

"But  I—" 

"You  have  admitted  in  the  presence  of  witnesses 
that  you  interfered  in  the  transmission  of  our  mes- 
sage. You  are  aware,  by  the  terms  of  Section  641, 
you  have  thus  rendered  yourself  liable  to — "  he 
read  from  the  volume,  "a  fine  of  one  thousand  dol- 
lars or  one  year's  imprisonment  or  both !" 

"And  your  judge,"  she  flared,  her  back  to  the 
wall  at  last  and  the  light  of  hopeless  but  unflinching 
battle  in  her  dark  eyes,  "your  judge  will  see  that  I 
get  both!  Is  that  what  you're  driving  at?  I'm  to 
get  a  year  in  jail  and  a  thousand  dollars  fine  just 
for—?" 

"It  is  quite  possible,"  dryly  assented  Robertson. 
"So  you  see,  Miss  Kelly,  you  are  in  rather  an  awk- 
ward fix." 

"And,"  panted  Wanda,  "you'll  do  that  to  a  phone 
girl,  just  because  she  tries  to  be  decent?" 

"We  don't  want  to,"  politely  evaded  Robertson. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

REPRESENTED    BY    COUNSEL 

THE  outer  door  opened  with  Jack-in-the-box 
suddenness  and  Tom  Blake  was  in  the  cleared 
space  where  Wanda  stood  at  bay. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  demanded  of  her  ea- 
gerly. "The  clerk  just  told  me  they'd  sent  for  you 
to  come  up  here.  I  was  afraid  it  was  about  that 
wretched  number.  So  I  came — " 

"You're  a  mind-reader,"  she  sneered,  nevertheless 
looking  up  at  him  with  a  gratitude  very  like  adora- 
tion. "They've  lost  the  chance  to  harm  one  woman. 
They're  taking  out  the  grudge  on  another." 

"So  it  was  about  the  number?" 

"It  was.  But  it  isn't.  It's  about  my  going  to  jail." 

"What!" 

"For  breaking  the  connection  a  while  ago  when 
they  were  sending  orders  over  the  wire  about  the 
Standish  story.  They've  flashed  Section  641  on  me. 
Jail  or  fine.  I'm  to  get  both !" 

284 


REPRESENTED    BY   COUNSEL 

"You'll  get  neither,"  roared  Tom.  "You're  a  fine 
line  of  men,  all  of  you,  to  bully  and  browbeat  one 
poor  kid  of  a  girl.  Well,  you've  done  all  of  it  you're 
going  to.  I'm  here  now.  And  I'll — " 

"Oh,  Tom,"  grunted  Jim  Blake  in  tired  disgust, 
"you're  worse  than  a  collie  pup  with  fleas.  Can't 
you  take  your  mouth  out  for  a  walk,  and  stop  mixing 
up  with  grown  folks'  business?  Keep  out  of  this." 

"I  won't.  I've  kept  out  of  it  too  long.  I  won't 
stand  for  the  way  you — " 

"Won't,  hey?"  drawled  Blake.  "Then  what  will 
sonny  do?" 

"I'll  act  as  her  counsel,  for  one  thing.  She's  got 
a  right  to  legal  advice.  It's  the  law.  And — " 

"Hell's  full  of  law,"  commented  Blake.  "What's 
the  law  to  us?" 

"It's  this  much  to  you,"  answered  Tom.  "If  you 
dare  carry  out  your  bullying  threats  against  Miss 
Kelly,  I'll  raise  a  stir  in  the  courts  and  the  papers 
that'll  put  you  and  the  machine  out  of  business." 

"Try  it,  my  boy,"  advised  his  father,  as  though 
admonishing  an  unruly  kindergarten  child.  "Try  it. 
She's  broken  the  law.  The  case  will  be  tried  before 


THE    WOMAN 

one  of  my  own  judges.  I  guess  you  can  figure  out 
the  answer.  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  what  will 
happen  if  I'm  on  one  side  and  this  Kelly  person  is 
on  the  other.  She'll  stand  about  as  much  chance  as 
an  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  show  in  Alabama  in  1863." 

"Miss  Kelly,"  formally  asked  Tom,  "may  I  act  as 
your  counsel  ?" 

"You  bet  you  can !"  was  the  girl's  fervid  response. 

"Very  good,"  nodded  Tom.    "Then,  gentlemen, 

this  investigation  will  be  conducted  not  only  on 

strictly  legal  lines,  but  with  due  courtesy;  or  my 

client  will  leave." 

"Leave?"  grinned  Blake.  "Not  yet,  she  won't." 
"We  will  bring  suit,  then  for  illegal — " 
"Bring  it,"  retorted  Blake,  "and  see  what'll  drop 
on  you.  I'm  Jim  Blake.  Every  cop  in  Washington 
salutes  as  I  go  by.  My  auto  can  sew  buttons  on  the 
speed  ordinances  and  no  one  dare  kick.  Why.  I  could 
kill  a  man  in  broad  daylight ;  and  the  coroner  would 
say  'self-defense'.  I  wouldn't  even  come  to  trial 
for  it.  That's  my  power.  And  you  know  it.  That's 
the  power  you  threaten  to  'put  out  of  business'  ?  No, 
no,  sonny.  What  you  say  sounds  fine.  But  it  doesn't 

286 


REPRESENTED    BY   COUNSEL 

make  sense.  This  girl's  broken  the  law.  And  the 
court  undoubtedly  will  give  her  whatever  term  I  say. 
She—" 

At  this  point  in  his  drawling  exposition  Blake 
caught  Mark  Robertson's  eye.  And  at  a  signal  he 
read  there,  the  older  man  brought  his  jaws  together 
with  a  click,  leaned  back  in  his  big  chair  and  became 
once  more  a  spectator. 

"Since  you  insist  on  interfering,  Tom,"  said  Rob- 
ertson, "I  consent  to  recognize  you  as  counsel  for 
Miss  Kelly.  You  are  a  lawyer  and  you  know  we 
can  do  what  your  father  has  said  we  can.  We  can 
legally  send  Miss  Kelly  to  prison  as  an  operator  who 
has  violated  the  law.  And,  by  the  way,  it  will  be  a 
decidedly  good  example  to  other  phone  girls  who 
talk  too  much  and  listen  too  much  and  who  seem  to 
regard  the  secrecy  clause  in  the  telephone  com- 
pany's list  of  orders  as  a  dead  letter.  Miss  Kelly 
has  committed  a  penal  offense.  She  has  admitted 
her  guilt  in  the  presence  of  witnesses — " 

"Lord!    Why  didn't  I  get  here  sooner?" 

"I  have,  technically,  a  perfect  case.  Now,  as  her 
counsel,  do  you  want  this  matter  settled  privately, 

287 


THE   WOMAN 

here  and  now?    Or  do  you  prefer  a  formal  charge 
and  a  public  trial?" 

"You  can't  force  the  situation  like  this,"  cried 
Tom.  "It's  conspiracy!" 

"Is  it?"  retorted  Mark  coolly.  "Very  good. 
Since  you  choose  to  take  that  tone,  we  will  simply 
call  your  bluff  by  arresting  her.  Neligan,  go  and  get 
a  plain-clothes  man.  Tell  the  captain  it's  for  Jim 
Blake.  Bring  the  man  back  with  you  and  have  him 
within  call." 

"We're  kind  of  up  against  it,  aren't  we,  Tom?" 
whispered  Wanda  as  Neligan  departed  on  his  mis- 
sion. 

"They'll  do  it,"  returned  Tom  in  the  same  tone. 
"That's  the  worst  part  of  it.  I  can  smash  one  or  two 
of  them,  before  they  lay  hands  on  you,  girl.  And 
I  shall.  You  can  count  on  seeing  the  prettiest  bit 
of  rough  house  ever  pulled  off  in  Washington.  If 
you  go  to  jail,  some  one's  going  to  the  hospital,  first. 
But  that  won't  save  you.  They've  got  the  law  with 
them.  Why  won't  you  tell,  Wanda?  This  Woman's 
nothing  to  you.  Why  not  save  yourself  by  telling 
her  number?" 

288 


REPRESENTED    BY   COUNSEL 

"Because,"  exclaimed  Wanda  stubbornly,  "there's 
nothing  to  tell.  I  just  won't  help  them." 

"But  you're  risking  your  liberty." 

"I'm  keeping  my  self-respect." 

"Miss  Kelly,"  said  Mark,  overhearing,  as  she  un- 
consciously raised  her  voice  in  the  heat  of  dispute, 
"these  heroics  are  all  very  fine.  But  prison  is  not  a 
pleasant  place.  And  your  counsel  knows  we  can  put 
you  there." 

"Oh,  I  grant  that,"  retorted  Tom.  "You've  got 
everything.  The  police,  the  courts,  the  law — every- 
thing. But  you  haven't  got  her  in  prison  yet,  and 
you  won't  until  you  have  a  chance,  first,  to  send  me 
there,  too,  on  a  charge  of  assault  with  intent  to  kill. 
If  you  think  that's  a  bluff,  go  ahead  and  call  it.  You 
are  the  men  our  country  refers  to  as  its  'Shining 
Lights'!  'Shining  Lights?'  You're  only  'Danger' 
signals !" 

"And,"  pursued  Mark,  paying  absolutely  no  atten- 
tion to  the  younger  man's  ravings,  "when  you  have 
served  your  prison  term,  Miss  Kelly,  I  warn  you 
that  you  will  find  every  door  to  an  honest  living 
closed  against  you." 

289 


THE   WOMAN 

"She  won't  need  to  make  a  living,"  vociferated 
Tom.  "If  she'll  let  me,  I'm  going  to — " 

"Miss  Kelly,"  said  Robertson,  eying  the  girl 
sharply,  "I  have  conducted  many  cases,  but  I  confess 
this  puzzles  me.  There  is  something  in  it  I  can  not 
understand.  We  offer  you  the  alternative  of  prison 
— Mr.  Blake  has  offered  you  money.  And  still  you 
refuse  us.  You  are  not  the  sort  of  girl  to  lose 
so  much  for  an  abstract  principle.  No  one  but  a 
fool  or  a  heroine  would  do  it.  And  you're  neither. 
There's  some  strong  personal  motive  that  makes  you 
oppose  us.  Is — ?" 

"Oh,  I've  got  motive  enough  in  opposing  the 
machine,  if  it  comes  to  that!"  interrupted  Wanda. 
"In  the  first  place,  my  father  was  Frank  E.  Kelly." 

Mark's  face  stiffened  with  surprise.  Gregg  and 
Van  Dyke  glanced  at  each  other,  half-awed.  Jim 
Blake  alone  gave  no  sign  of  disturbance.  Glancing 
amusedly  at  Wanda  from  between  his  slitted  eyes, 
he  drawled: 

"Frank  E.  Kelly,  hey?  So  you're  trying  to  get 
back  at  me,  young  woman?" 

"Put  it  that  way  if  you  like,"  returned  Wanda 
290 


REPRESENTED    BY   COUNSEL 

fiercely.  "But  there  is  more  than  that.  I'm  against 
you  and  all  the  dirty  machine  in  every  way.  Why  ? 
Because  I've  got  the  bad  luck  to  be  one  of  the  people. 
To  be  one  of  the  public  that  you  bleed  and  guy.  I'm 
a  strap-hanger  who  pays  five  cents  for  a  seat  and 
doesn't  get  it.  I'm — " 

"We  are  not  here  to  discuss  socialism,"  interposed 
Mark.  "We—" 

"Socialism!"  she  mocked.  "That's  the  fancy 
word  for  anything  that  calls  graft  and  rottenness  by 
their  right  names.  The  day's  passing  when  you  can 
shut  people's  mouths  by  howling  socialism  at  them. 
I  don't  know  what  socialism  is — and  I  don't  care. 
But  I  do  know — " 

The  telephone  jangled  into  the  rush  of  her  talk. 
Jim  Blake  picked  up  the  instrument. 

"Hello,"  he  queried,  "that  you,  Burns?  Instruc- 
tions, hey?  I  gave  'em.  Keep  Winthrop  talking 
till  he  drops,  then  get  Mullins  recognized  and  let 
him  talk  all  night  if  he  can ;  or  till  I'm  ready  to  break 
in.  Delay — that's  the  idea — delay!  Hold  the  floor 
and  delay.  What?  Oh,  in  a  little  while,  now,  I 
guess.  Don't  worry." 

291 


THE   WOMAN 

"Are  things  getting  warm  on  the  bill?"  asked 
Gregg  as  Blake  hung  up  the  receiver. 

"Only  so-so.  It's  all  right.  Only  don't  waste  any 
more  time,  Mark.  Hit  up  the  pace.  Never  mind  if 
the  boiler  explodes." 

"Miss  Kelly,"  said  Mark,  "you  still  refuse  to  an- 
swer my  questions?" 

"I  refuse  everything,"  exulted  Wanda.  "You 
and  the  machine  are  licked  to  a  standstill.  And  / 
helped  to  do  it.  That's  easy  worth  a  good  whole 
year  in  jail/' 

"Your  motives  for  working  against  us?"  he  in- 
sisted. "You  say  you  are  doing  it  on  account  of 
your  father  and  because  of  your  political  beliefs?" 

"Yes." 

"There  is  no  more  personal  motive  ?" 

"What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"I  mean,  are  you  shielding  any  one?" 

"Of  course  I  am.  I'm  shielding  the  Woman 
you're  after." 

"Do  you  know  who  she  is?" 

"No." 

"Gregg,"  ordered  Robertson,  turning  to  the 
292 


REPRESENTED    BY   COUNSEL 

highly-entertained  Kansan,  "will  you  go  and  get 
Standish  ?  Ask  him  to  come  here." 

"What  in  green-and-yellow  Hades  do  you  want 
Standish  for?"  snorted  Blake. 

"And,"  supplemented  Gregg,  loath  to  miss  the 
rest  of  so  diverting  a  scene  of  torture,  "maybe  I 
couldn't  find  him.  Or,  if  I  could,  how  do  you  know 
he'd  come  here.*  We  weren't  what  you'd  call  real 
friendly  with  him  when  he  was  here,  a  while  back." 

"You'll  find  Hicks  down-stairs,"  replied  Mark. 
"He  and  his  men  had  orders  to  keep  Standish  in 
sight.  They'll  tell  you  where  he  is  if  he  isn't  in  the 
house.  As  for  making  him  come  here,  tell  him  he 
may  save  this  girl  from  prison.  Then  if  she's  in 
his  pay  or  if  she  is  a  friend  of  the  Woman  he'll 
come." 

"All  right,"  ruefully  assented  Gregg,  making 
sadly  for  the  outer  door. 

"And  say,  Gregg,"  Blake  called  after  the  depart- 
ing recreation  loser,  "after  you've  sent  Standish 
here,  go  and  report  to  Burns.  He  may  have  need 
for  your  prairie  lungs  when  Mullins  and  Winthrop 
get  hoarse." 

293 


THE   WOMAN 

The  gate  of  a  trouble-lover's  paradise  slamming 
behind  him,  the  Kansan  departed — a  slave  to  ma- 
chine duty. 

"Miss  Kelly,"  Mark  had  already  resumed,  "y°u 
say  you  don't  know  who  this  Woman  is.  Yet  you 
admit  you  are  facing  prison  in  order  to  protect  her.'r 

"No,"  returned  Wanda  easily,  "I  told  you  I'm 
doing  this  to  get  back  at  you  for  rm$  father's — " 

"A  revenge  that  will  cost  you  your  liberty." 

"Folks  can't  get  something  for  nothing — except 
you  grafters." 

"Don't  try  to  stick  it  out,  girl,"  exhorted  Blake. 
"You  can't  afford  to  get  square  with  me  at  this 
price." 

"Can't  I?    Wait  and  see." 

"Do  you  know  Standish,  personally?"  called 
Mark. 

"No,  I  don't." 

"You  want  him  to  win,  then,  just  for  political 
reasons. 

"That's  it." 

"If  any  other  man  than  Standish  were  fighting 
the  organization,  you  would  act  as  you  are  now  ?" 

294 


REPRESENTED    BY   COUNSEL 

"Yes,"  said  Wanda,  thankful  to  feel  her  feet 
planted  once  more  on  solid  ground,  and  breathing 
the  more  easily  for  the  safer  turn  the  questions  were 
taking. 

"And,"  continued  Mark,  "if  any  other  woman 
were  in  danger  you  would  still  oppose  us  in  this 
way?" 

"Yes." 

"Then,"  cried  Mark  in  quick  triumph,  "you  do 
know  who  she  is !" 

"I — no — I  didn't  say  so!"  murmured  Wanda, 
wholly  at  a  loss. 

"You  didn't  mean  to  say  so,"  corrected  Mark; 
"but  you  admitted  it." 

"I  didn't !  I  didn't !"  confusedly  reiterated  Wanda. 

The  long  strain  was  telling  on  her.  Her  wits, 
usually  so  agile,  now  moved  with  palpable  effort. 
The  quick  brain  felt  like  hot  lead.  She  was  op- 
pressed by  a  curious  sense  of  physical  nausea.  Dimly 
she  began  to  realize  how  a  victim  of  the  third  degree 
may  at  last  break  down  through  sheer  fatigue.  Yet 
she  rallied  her  fagged-out  forces,  wearily  repeating : 

"I  didn't." 

295 


THE   WOMAN 

"Don't  fence  with  us.  I  say  you  know  who  the 
Woman  is — this  Woman  for  whom  you  are  so  eager 
to  sacrifice  yourself.  No  one  suffers  as  you  are  suf- 
fering merely  for  political  principle.  You  not  only 
know  this  Woman  but  you  care  enough  for  her  to 
suffer  in  her  place." 

His  words,  no  longer  inquisitorial,  but  beating 
down  with  merciless  victory  upon  her  shattered  de- 
fenses, drove  Wanda  to  her  last  refuge — dull  ob- 
stinacy. 

"If  I  did  know,"  she  muttered  sullenly,  "it 
wouldn't  do  you  any  good.  If  I  knew  her  name 
you'd  never  get  it  out  of  me.  I  don't  care  what  you 
do,  I'll  never— I— I  won't  tell!  /  won't  tell!  I 
WON'T  TELL!" 

Her  voice,  hysterics-torn,  rose  harsh  and  shrill  as 
the  cry  of  a  peacock. 

"Wanda!"  soothed  Tom.  "Don't,  dear!  Keep 
cool.  It's  a  vile  outrage !  Mark,  if  you — " 

"Of  course  you  understand,  Miss  Kelly/'  went 
on  Mark,  as  gently  now  as  if  he  were  talking  to  a 
child,  "that  the  actual  name  is  worth  much  more  to 

296 


REPRESENTED    BY   COUNSEL 

us  than  the  clue  the  number  would  give.  We  will 
pay  you  a  thousand  dollars — " 

"No!    I  tell  you  I  won't!    No!" 

"We'll  throw  the  limit  into  the  waste  basket," 
drawled  Blake.  "I'll  make  it  ten  thousand.  Ten 
thousand  dollars,  Miss  Kelly.  I  could  buy  a  whole 
pailful  of  congressman  for  less.  But  it's  yours,  for 
that  name." 

"I  won't  tell !"  panted  Wanda,  forcing  each  word 
with  pain  from  between  convulsively  clenched  teeth. 
"I— won't— tell!" 

"Oh,  come!  Come!"  coaxed  Mark.  "There's  a 
price  for  everything.  We  understand  your  feelings 
of  loyalty  to  this  Woman.  You  don't  want  to  give 
her  away.  She's  a  dear  friend  of  yours  who — 
who  made  one  mistake  and  then  repented.  Is  that 
it?" 

"Yes !"  exclaimed  Wanda,  striving  to  choke  down 
her  growing  horror  for  this  smooth-voiced  plump 
man  who  was  so  inexorably  wearing  her  nerves  to 
2hreds.  "Yes,  that's  it.  She's  a  good  woman,  now. 
She's  married.  Happy,  too.  You'll  make  her  life 

297 


THE   WOMAN 

a  hell,  just  to  win  your  fight.    Don't  you  see  I  can't 
do  what  you  want  ?" 

"That's  why  we're  trying  to  make  it  easy  for  you. 
We  don't  want  to  prosecute  you — " 

"It  isn't  prosecution!"  shouted  Tom.  "It's  per- 
secution!  Dirty  low-down  persecution  of  a  kid 
who's  being  square.  You're  a  fine  body  of  men  to 
bend  all  your  weight  and  strength  and  skill  to  break- 
ing a  butterfly.  You're  trying  to  make  her  betray 
a  sacred  trust.  And  in  doing  it  you're  betraying  the 
womanhood  of  the  mothers  that  bore  you.  Lord ! , 
I've  seen  forty-two  pictures  of  Judas  Iscariot;  and 
no  two  of  them  looked  alike.  But  every  one  of 
them  looked  like  you  curs !" 

"I've  never  yet  seen  a  picture  of  the  Original 
Damn  Fool,"  sighed  Blake,  in  contemptuous  bore- 
dom; "but  I  wish  you'd  have  one  taken,  Tom." 

"Miss  Kelly,"  urged  Mark,  "your  name  won't  ap- 
pear in  this.  No  one  need  know  it  was  you  who  put 
us  on  the  track." 

"I— won't— tell!" 

"Then,"  Mark  exclaimed  roughly,  "we  can  do 
nothing  more.  Van  Dyke,  telephone  down  and  see 

298 


REPRESENTED    BY   COUNSEL 

if — Oh,  here  you  are,   Neligan!     Got  that  plain- 
clothes  man  down-stairs?" 

Neligan  nodded.  Meanwhile  Tom  was  whisper- 
ing frenziedly  to  Wanda. 

"Tell  me  the  name,  dear.  I  won't  tell  the  others. 
But  it  may  show  me  a  way  to  help  you  out.  And 
we're  in  a  horrible  fix." 

"I  know  that— But— I  won't  tell!" 

"But  if  you  won't  even  tell  me  why  you  refuse — " 

"If  I  told  you,  you  couldn't  help.  You'd  agree 
I'm  doing  right." 

Tom  whirled  about  on  the  others. 

"Dad!  Mark!"  he  said.  "Before  you  go  any 
further  I  want  you  to  know  I've  asked  Miss  Kelly  to 
be  my  wife." 

"No,  no !"  cried  Wanda,  trying  to  throw  her  open 
hand  across  his  mouth.  "Don't — " 

"If  she  consents,"  rushed  on  Tom,  "I'll  marry  her 
at  once ;  whether  in  prison  or  out.  I  love  her.  For 
my  sake  won't  you — ?" 

"I'm  very  sorry,  Tom,"  replied  Mark,  "but  she's 
not  your  wife,  yet  And  she  has  her  release  in  her 
own  hands.  She  has  only  to  speak — " 

299 


THE   WOMAN 

"Dad !"  appealed  the  boy. 

"Not  on  your  worthless  life,"  growled  Blake. 
""That's  the  very  thing  she's  been  working  up  to  all 
the  time.  I  knew  it  and  I've  been  waiting  for  this. 
Her  price  is  my  consent.  And  I  won't  pay  it. 
That's  what  I  meant  when  I  said  the  price  was  too 
high.  She  wouldn't  be  the  first  girl — or  the  mil- 
lionth— who's  roped  in  a  rich  man's  easy  son  and 
held  the  father  up  and  ruined  the  boy's  future.  Not 
for  mine,  thanks.  I  stand  pat." 

"If  you've  any  influence  with  her,  Tom,"  re- 
marked his  brother-in-law,  "you'll  use  it  to  make  her 
tell." 

"He  hasn't  any  influence!"  retorted  Wanda  be- 
fore Tom  could  speak.  "Except  that  his  standing 
by  me  against  you  all  proves  to  me  I'm  doing  right. 
And — do  you  think,  Jim  Blake,  that  I'd  marry  a 
son  of  yours?  Not  if  he  was  John  D.  Rockefeller 
and  E.  H.  Sothern  rolled  into  one.  Not  till  I've 
squared  my  account  with  you." 

"You  won't  marry  a  son  of  Jim  Blake's?"  echoed 
Tom.  "Well,  after  to-night  I'm  not  Jim  Blake's  son. 
Here's  where  I  cut  loose  and — " 

300 


REPRESENTED    BY   COUNSEL 

"Go  as  far  as  you  like,"  vouchsafed  his  father, 
outwardly  unmoved.  "But  the  girl  tells  us  or  else 
she  goes  to  jail." 

"I— won't— tell!" 

"Mark,  ring  for  the  officer — " 

"There  he  is  at  the  door,"  answered  Robertson 
as  the  buzzer  sounded.  "Let  him  in,  Neligan." 

"I— won't— tell!" 

Neligan  opened  the  door.  Standish  stood  on  the 
threshold.  Tom,  who  had  leaned  forward  pugna- 
ciously, drew  back. 

"Come  in,  Mr.  Standish,"  said  Mark.  "I  suppose 
Gregg  explained  the  situation  to  you." 

"That  is  why  I  am  here,"  curtly  answered  Stand- 
ish; his  somber  eyes  traveling  slowly  about  the 
room  and  resting  at  last  on  Wanda's  tense,  haggard 
little  face. 

"You  know,  then,"  went  on  Mark,  "that  she-  is 
ready  to  face  imprisonment  to  shield  you?" 

"That  is  what  Mr.  Gregg  told  me.  I  don't  under- 
stand— " 

"Neither  do  we.  But  we  thought  you  might  feel 
like  saving  her  from  punishment." 

301 


THE   WOMAN 

"How?" 

"By  voting  with  us  on  the  Mullins  bill." 

"No." 

"You  will  accept  her  sacrifice,  then?" 

"I — I  have  no  alternative." 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Mark  with  a  shrug  of  his  wide 
shoulders,  "but  that  seems  to  settle  it,  all  around. 
Neligan,  tell  them  to  send  the  plain-clothes  man 
here.  We  may  as  well  wind  this  up  at  once." 

"Wait,  please,"  interposed  Standish. 

He  crossed  to  where  Wanda  stood. 

"Miss  Kelly,"  he  said  gently,  "why  are  you  doing 
this?" 

"I  promised  her,"  said  the  girl. 

"I  don't  see  why  you  should  have  promised — " 

"No,"  replied  Wanda,  with  a  slight  curl  of  her 
lip.  "You  wouldn't  see." 

"Standish,"  observed  Mark,  "you  speak  as  if  you 
were  willing  we  should  know  the  Woman's  name." 

"Not  at  all.  I'm  only  sorry  the  machine  has  closed 
its  teeth  on  that  poor  little  girl." 

"Thanks!"  jeered  Wanda.  "Now,  then,  Mr. 
Blake,  call  your  cop.  I'm  ready." 

302 


REPRESENTED    BY   COUNSEL 

Blake  nodded  to  Mark,  who  picked  up  the  tele- 
phone instrument. 

Then,  before  any  of  them  knew  of  her  presence, 
Grace  was  in  the  room  and  had  caught  her  husband's 
arm  as  he  lifted  the  receiver  from  the  hook. 

"You  shan't  do  it!"  she  was  crying.  "You  shall 
not!" 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE   LAST    CARD 

TTTANDA  was  first  to  see  her,  even  before 
*  *  Mark  felt  the  restraining  clasp  on  his  arm. 

"Mrs.  Robertson !"  cried  the  telephone  girl  in  ter- 
ror; intuition  telling  her  why  Grace  was  there. 

"Grace !"  called  Tom  joyously.  "Help  us !  You'll 
make  everything  right.  You  always  do." 

Mark  Robertson's  quick  exclamation  of  annoy- 
ance and  Jim  Blake's  disgusted  growl  blended  into 
one  chord  of  protest. 

"Father,"  said  Grace  in  eager  appeal,  "you  won't 
go  on  with  this?  It  is  abominable !" 

"I'm  sorry,  daughter;  but  we've  got  to.  I  wish 
you'd  clear  out.  It's  no  place — " 

"But,  father,  can't  you  see?  Miss  Kelly  is  pro- 
tecting some  poor  woman  who  has  done  wrong  and 
who  has  repented.  Must  she  be  punished  so  ?  Must 
the  Woman's  years  of  repentance  all  count  for  noth- 


ing?' 


304 


THE   LAST    CARD 

"That's  no  concern  of  ours,"  said  Mark.  "The 
\Yoman's  possible  repentance  is  between  her  and  her 
God.  We—" 

"Then  leave  her  punishment  to  God.  It's  not  for 
you  to  say  how  she  shall  suffer.  How  can  a  mortal 
like  yourself  tell  where  her  punishment  lies?  You 
are  striking  with  the  blindness  of  a  man;  without 
dreaming  where  the  blow  will  fall." 

"It  will  fall  where  it  is  deserved.  I'm  enough  oi 
a  believer  in  divine  justice  to  know  that." 

"It  will  fall  on  her  husband  more  heavily  than 
on  her." 

"It  will  do  him  no  harm  to  know  the  type  of 
woman  he's  married.  If  she  was  worth  saving  she 
told  him  everything  before  she  became  his  wife.  If 
she  didn't,  she  doesn't  merit  any  one's  pity." 

"It  isn't  fair!  It  isn't  fair!  Mark,  your  injustice 
to  this  girl  here  is  a  thousandfold  worse  than  your 
cruelty  to  the  Woman.  It  is  wicked  to  punish 
Wanda  Kelly  for  her  loyalty  in  trying  to  save  a 
friend  from  disgrace.  It's  cowardly — unbelievable !" 

"Steady,  daughter!  Steady!"  admonished  Blake, 
amazed  at  his  usually  well-poised  child's  vehemence. 

305 


THE   WOMAN 

"You're  all  worked  up  over  this.    It  isn't  like  you 
to—" 

"No,"  agreed  Mark,  "it  isn't.  That  is  what  has 
been  puzzling  me." 

He  was  eying  Grace  strangely.  The  lightning 
quick  and  accurate  faculty  of  deduction  that  had 
won  his  first  success  at  the  bar  was  stirring  strongly 
within  him. 

"Grace,"  he  went  on,  as  though  feeling  his  way 
through  tortuous  thought-passages  by  means  of  a 
frail  clue,  "you've  never  before  interfered  with  our 
affairs.  You  have  heard  of  just  as  unfortunate 
cases  as  this;  and  yet  you  always  seemed  to  take  it 
for  granted  we  were  doing  right.  Have  you  any 
personal  reason  for  defending  this  Woman  against 
your  own  husband  and  your  father?  Do  you  know 
who  she  is?" 

"That's  absurd!"  denied  Grace  with  an  effort  at 
derisive  laughter  that  rang  as  false  as  a  cracked 
coin.  "How  could  I  possibly — ?" 

"This  Kelly  girl  knows,"  insisted  Mark.  "And 
she  has  told  you.  She  has  enlisted  your  aid.  Isn't 
that  so?" 

306 


THE   LAST    CARD 

"Nonsense !  Would  Miss  Kelly  be  likely  to  come 
to  me — a  stranger — and — ?" 

"Grace,  when  I  came  back  from  the  Capitol  a 
while  ago  that  door  was  locked.  And  I  heard  a 
woman's  voice.  I  thought  then  it  was  from  the  next 
suite.  But  now  I  know  better.  This  girl  here  was 
with  you,  then ;  appealing  to  you,  winning  your  sym- 
pathy for  her  friend.  That's  why  you  were  all  un- 
strung and  nervous  when  I  came  in.  That's  why  you 
talked  to  me  so  wildly  about  mercy  and  the  power 
of  a  woman  to  live  down  her  past.  You've  known  all 
along.  You  saw  the  straits  we  were  laboring  in. 
At  a  word  you  could  have  put  victory  into  our 
hands." 

"I— no— I—" 

"Grace,"  he  commanded,  his  voice  still  gentle,  but 
with  a  ring  of  iron  behind  its  suavity,  "look  at  me !" 

Slowly,  as  by  hard  physical  effort,  she  raised  her 
panic-widened  eyes  to  meet  his  gaze. 

"You  know  this  Woman's  name,"  he  declared. 

At  the  mastery  that  vibrated  through  his  voice 
and  look,  she  faltered,  through  no  conscious  volition 
of  her  own : 

307 


THE    WOMAN 

"Yes." 

There  was  a  general  movement.  Neligan  slapped 
his  great  hand  on  his  knee.  Wanda  took  an  im- 
pulsive step  toward  Grace. 

"You  know  the  name,"  pursued  Mark,  still  grip- 
ping his  wife's  brain  by  the  magnetism  that  was  al- 
most hypnotic  power.  "We  still  have  time  to  use  it. 
Tell  it  to  me." 

"No — no!"  she  murmured  distractedly.  "I — I 
can't.  I  won't.  I — " 

"Grace!"  and  now  the  iron  glinted  more  openly 
through  the  velvet  sheathing,  "do  you  mean  to  say 
you  are  going  to  let  us  face  ruin  when  one  word 
from  you  -would — " 

"I  tell  you,  I  can't— I  can't!" 

Mark  shifted  his  attack  with  unexpected  swift- 
ness. 

"Mr.  Standish  is  willing,"  said  he,  "to  see  this 
girl  here  terribly  punished  for  protecting  the  guilty 
Woman.  Are  youf" 

"No,  no!    But—" 

"Mrs.  Robertson!"  broke  in  Wanda,  first  of  all 
to  detect  the  note  of  weakening  in  Grace's  voice. 

308 


THE    LAST    CARD 

"Don't  tell!  Don't  tell!  Keep  your  nerve.  It's 
all  right.  Never  you  mind  what  they  threaten  to  do 
to  me.  Don't  give  her  away !" 

"Shut  up!"  roared  Neligan. 

Grace  had  already  turned  to  the  girl,  her  eyes 
swimming,  her  lips  a-tremble. 

"I  can't  let  you  pay  such  a  price  as  that,  Miss 
Kelly,"  she  expostulated.  "I  can't !  I  can't  do  that !" 

"Why  not,"  stoutly  demanded  Wanda,  "if  I  am 
willing?" 

"Oh— what  caw  I  do?" 

"You  can  do  your  duty  to  your  husband  and 
father,"  suggested  Robertson.  "Well,"  he  added 
coldly,  as  his  wife  looked  at  him  in  dull  despair, 
"I'm  waiting  for  your  answer." 

"She'll  keep  her  word  to  me!"  cried  Wanda,  fore- 
stalling Grace's  half-formed  reply.  "She  promised 
me  not  to  tell.  And  she  won't.  Come  on,  you  cheap 
blackmailers  and  take  me  to  jail  if  you're  going  to. 
I'm—" 

Mark's  eyes  had  never  for  an  instant  left  his 
wife's  face.  At  the  horror  that  now  deepened  in  it 
he  saw  what  his  next  and  crowning  move  must  be. 

309 


THE    WOMAN 

"Neligan,"  he  ordered,  "take  this  phone  girl 
down-stairs  and  turn  her  over  to  the  officer  who  is 
waiting.  Van  Dyke  will  be  around  at  the  station- 
house  in  a  few  minutes  to  make  the  charge.  And 
he'll  see  that  she  is  held  in  bail  too  heavy  for  her 
friends  to  pay." 

"Neligan !"  yelled  Tom,  springing  in  front  of  the 
giant  henchman  as  the  latter  moved  toward  Wanda. 
"If  you  put  a  finger  on  her  I'll — " 

"No!"  wailed  Grace  in  the  same  breath.  "You 
shan't  arrest  her,  Mark.  I  can't  bear  it !  I — " 

"You'll  tell  ?"  asked  Mark,  exultant  at  the  success 
of  his  ruse. 

"I— yes!" 

"No!"  contradicted  Wanda. 

But  this  time  Grace  did  not  respond  to  the  eager 
appeal.  And  Mark  knew  that  he  had  won. 

"Mrs.  Robertson!"  implored  Wanda.  "Remem- 
ber what  you  promised  me !  Don't  lose  your  nerve,  I 
tell  you.  Come  on,  Mr.  Hired  Man  and  turn  me 
over  to  the  police.  Tom,  stand  out  of  his  way.  It's 
all  right." 

"Stop!"  broke  in  Grace.  "I  must  tell.  I  must!" 
310 


THE   LAST    CARD 

"Pardon  me,  Robertson,"  intervened  Standish,  as 
he  saw  Grace's  last  barrier  break  down;  "but  I  ad- 
vise you  to  clear  the  room  before  you  let  her  speak. 
Three  people  here  already  know  the  name.  I  advise 
you  to  keep  the  number  as  small  as  possible." 

"That  is  our  affair,  not  yours,"  retorted  Mark. 
"She  shall  tell  us  all.  Inside  of  a  few  hours  the 
whole  country  is  going  to  know  that  name." 

"Mark,"  begged  Grace,  "let  me  tell  it  to  you 
alone!" 

"No,"  refused  the  husband.  "It's  too  late  now  to 
spare  any  one's  feelings.  And  witnesses  are  neces- 
sary in  an  affair  like  this.  It  concerns  us  all.  And 
we  must  move  quickly." 

"Mrs.  Robertson !"  reiterated  Wanda,  "you  prom- 
ised—" 

"Grace,"  interrupted  Mark,  fearful  lest  the  girl's 
frenzied  plea  should  make  his  wife  waver,  "you  had 
no  right  to  give  a  promise  that  put  you  against  me 
and  against  your  father.  It  is  far  worse  to  keep 
such  a  promise  than  to  break  it.  What  is  the 
name?" 

"Grace,"  pleaded  Blake,  as  she  still  fought  vainly 


THE   WOMAN 

for  words,  "you've  got  the  whole  party  in  your 
hands  to-night ;  Mark's  future,  my  own  power — 

"Grace,"  ordered  Mark;  "tell  us!  Every  minute 
is  precious  now." 

"You've  got  to  tell  us,"  added  Blake.  "What  are 
you  afraid  of,  girl?  I'm  behind  you.  Neligan,"  as 
she  still  hesitated  and  glanced  hopelessly  at  Wanda, 
"take  this  phone  girl  away." 

"No!"  cried  Grace,  finding  her  tongue  at  last. 
"I'll  tell.  I  promise.  I'll  tell!  Don't  touch  her." 

"Good !"  ejaculated  Mark,  understanding  that  the 
victory  was  utterly  his,  past  all  further  doubt. 

"Mr.  Standish,"  he  went  on  with  a  savage  joy 
that  rent  away  the  last  remnant  of  the  velvet  from 
the  iron  beneath.  "It's  been  a  long  fight.  But  you 
couldn't  beat  the  organization.  And  I  told  you  you 
couldn't.  I  warned  you  not  to  meddle  with  our 
affairs.  You  have  worried  us  at  every  turn.  Now 
you'll  pay  for  it.  And  you'll  get  the  same  mercy  you 
offered  us.  Even  if  you  offer  to  resign  we  won't 
give  you  that  alternative.  You've  been  howling  for 
a  fight  to  a  finish.  This  is  the  finish."  . 

312 


"It  is  the  finish,"  agreed  Standish,  his  deep  voice 
infinitely  sad.  "And  I  am  sorry  for  it.  I  don't  think 
you  need  me  here  any  longer,  gentlemen.  And  I  will 
barely  have  time  to  reach  the  Capitol  before  the  bill 
comes  to  a  vote.  Good  night." 

He  looked  furtively  at  Grace.  But  she  was  star- 
ing blankly  ahead  of  her  with  eyes  that  saw  nothing. 

"Good  night/"'  he  repeated.  "I  would  have  spared 
you,  Robertson.  But  you  would  have  it." 

And  he  was  gone.  His  words  had  fallen  on  deaf 
ears.  The  men  were  leaning  forward  eagerly  to 
catch  Grace's  first  syllable. 

"And  now,"  Mark  demanded,  as  his  wife  still 
hesitated,  "who  is  she,  Grace?" 

Blake  had  forestalled  her  answer.  He  crossed  the 
room  to  the  telephone. 

"We  win !"  he  was  chuckling.  "It's  a  way  we've 
got.  Hell's  full  of  losers.  And  I'm  still  loss-proof." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  ?"  queried  Van  Dyke, 
who  had  dropped  back  in  his  chair  a  few  moments 
earlier,  taking  no  longer  even  a  passive  part  in  the 
scene. 

313 


THE   WOMAN 

"I'm  going  to  phone  Gregg  to  let  the  house  know 
the  whole  story;  names,  dates  and  all.  By  the  time 
I  get  him  on  the  wire  Grace  will  have  told." 

"Hold  on,  Jim,"  objected  Van  Dyke.    "Not  yet." 

"Not  yet?  What  d'ye  mean ?  Why  not?  We're 
almost  against  the  ropes  over  there  at  the  Capitol. 
This  is  our  last  punch  and  it's  going  to  be  a  knock- 
out." 

"Wait,  Jim!"  begged  Van  Dyke.  "Wait  till  you 
hear  the  name." 

"We've  got  the  name.   Grace  is  going  to  tell  us." 

"You've  got  it,  yes.    But  you  can't  use  it,  Jim." 

Blake,  telephone  instrument  in  hand,  paused  to 
glare  down  in  angry  amazement  at  the  saturnine 
lawyer  who  so  calmly  opposed  him  in  the  hour  of 
victory. 

"Why  in  blazes  can't  we  use  it?"  he  blustered. 
"Are  you  weakening?" 

He  took  the  receiver  from  the  hook.  But  Van 
Dyke,  with  a  peremptory  gesture,  halted  him. 

"Wait,  I  say !"  ordered  the  lawyer.  "Neligan,  go 
down-stairs  and  get  rid  of  that  officer.  And  don't 
come  back." 


THE   LAST   CARD 

Blake  and  Robertson  blinked  in  wonder  at  the 
man  who  had  so  suddenly  and  inexplicably  assumed 
mastership  of  the  situation.  Neligan,  doubtfully,, 
yet  obeying  the  note  of  imperative  command  in  Van 
Dyke's  voice,  moved  toward  the  door. 

"Go  with  him,  Tom,"  whispered  Wanda.  "For  my 
sake.  You  don't  want  to  hear  the  name." 

"You're  right,"  assented  Tom,  following  in  Neli- 
gan's  wake.  "It's  none  of  my  business.  Now  that 
you  are  safe — " 

The  door  closed  behind  the  two  departing  men. 

"Come,  Grace,"  prompted  Mark.    "Who  is  she?'1' 

Grace's   lips   parted.      But   they  were   dry 
cracked.    Her  tongue  would  not  stir. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

JIM  BLAKE,  LOSER 

\  ND  so  for  an  instant  they  stood.  It  was  an  odd 
•*•  ^  tableau :  Grace,  helpless,  shaking,  dumb ; 
Wanda,  her  arms  clasped  protectingly  about  the  un- 
heeding Woman,  who  did  not  so  much  as  realize 
their  presence  nor  feel  the  warm  sympathy  of  their 
embrace;  Mark,  his  triumph  tinged  with  impatience 
at  his  wife's  hesitation ;  Blake,  still  gripping  the  tele- 
phone and  glowering  in  angry  surprise  at  the  law- 
yer; Van  Dyke  grim,  alert,  master  of  the  moment, 
his  lean  face  set  in  lines  of  unwonted  sadness. 

And  it  was  Van  Dyke  who  broke  the  brief  silence. 
His  precise  dry  voice  was  tinged  by  a  note  of  some- 
thing almost  solemn  as  he  addressed  Robertson. 

"Mark,"  he  said,  "Miss  Kelly  has  told  us  that  she 
promised  the — the  Woman  not  to  tell.  When  did 
she  make  that  promise  ?" 

316 


JIM   BLAKE,    LOSER 

"What  does  that  matter  now?"  snapped  Mark. 
"We—" 

"She  never  heard  of  the  affair  until  early  this 
evening.  So  it  must  be  since  then  that  she  talked 
with  the  Woman  about  it.  Miss  Kelly  has  been  on 
duty  down-stairs  ever  since  six  o'clock.  She  has  not 
left  this  hotel.  How  could  she  have  communicated 
with  the  Woman  ?" 

"By  telephone.   If—" 

"I  think  not,"  denied  Van  Dyke,  the  cold  sorrow 
in  his  voice  now  apparent  to  every  one.  "The  Wom- 
an is  here  in  this  house." 

"So  much  the  better !"  declared  Blake,  again  pick- 
ing up  the  telephone. 

Van  Dyke,  in  gloomy  wonder,  turned  on  his  chief. 

"You  have  often  boasted,  Jim,"  said  he,  "that  you 
owe  your  success  to  the  fact  you  see  things  just  a 
second  sooner  than  other  people.  Don't  you  under- 
stand— even  yet  ?" 

"No,"  growled  Blake,  "I  don't.  Out  with  it,  man ! 
What  are  you  trying  to  get  at  ?  Don't  beat  about  the 
bush.  You're  wasting  time  that  we  haven't  got." 

Van  Dyke  faced  Robertson ;  his  lean  face  working. 

317 


THE   WOMAN 

"Mark,"  he  said,  tapping  the  duplicate  telephone 
list,  "your  house  in  New  York  is  charged  here  with 
two  calls.  We  thought  it  was  a  mistake — " 

A  wordless  gurgle  from  Jim  Blake  interrupted 
him.  The  telephone  was  set  down  by  a  hand  that 
shook  as  though  from  palsy.  For  a  single  instant 
the  heavy-lidded  eyes  were  wholly,  starkly  unveiled 
in  a  glare  of  unbelieving  horror.  Then  they  turned 
stupidly  upon  Grace  who  bowed  her  head  in  a  spasm 
of  hysterical  unchecked  weeping  before  the  panic 
query  in  their  gaze. 

Wanda  Kelly  wound  her  arms  tighter  about  the 
heaving  body.  But  Grace  neither  felt  the  contact 
nor  heard  the  whisper  of  eager  futile  comforting. 
Blake  stared  open-mouthed,  his  face  greenish  and 
flabby,  the  stern  jaw  loose,  the  keen  eyes  bulging. 
Mark  Robertson  was  still  frowning  perplexedly  at 
Van  Dyke. 

"Don't  you  understand  ?"  pleaded  the  latter. 

"No,  I  don't,"  returned  Mark.  "What  have  the 
two  phone  calls  to  my  home  got  to  do  with — ?" 

"Suppose  the  second  call  were  not  a  mistake — ?" 
hesitated  Van  Dyke. 


JIM    BLAKE,    LOSER 

Robertson's  face  went  purple.  The  big  veins  near 
his  temples  swelled  grotesquely.  He  took  an  involun- 
tary step  toward  Van  Dyke.  The  latter  raised  a 
protesting  hand. 

"Mark,"  he  said,  flinching  not  at  all  before  the 
bloodshot  fury  in  the  husband's  little  eyes,  "we  are 
here  as  lawyers,  making  an  investigation.  At  last 
we  have  struck  the  right  trail.  I  am  sorry  it  leads 
where  it  does.  I — " 

He  got  no  further.  At  a  stride  Robertson  was  be- 
side his  wife.  Roughly  brushing  aside  Wanda's  em- 
bracing arms  he  caught  Grace  by  the  shoulder  and 
held  her. 

"You  hear  what  this  man  insinuates?"  he  cried 
thickly.  "I  don't  ask  you  to  foul  your  lips  by  deny- 
ing it.  I'll  attend  to  him  later.  But  give  me  the  right 
to  do  that  by  telling  the  Woman's  name  at  once." 

"Grace !"  croaked  Blake,  his  throat  sanded  with  a 
horror  that  he  would  not  confess,  "don't  you  hear 
what  they're  saying,  girl  ?" 

In  his  harsh  eagerness,  Mark  forcibly  lifted  his 
wife's  bent  head  and  forced  her  eyes  to  meet  his. 

"What  the  matter?"  he  demanded  sharply.  "Why 
319 


THE    WOMAN 

don't  you  speak?  Tell  Van  Dyke  he  lies.  Tell  hrm 
he  lies,  I  say!  Oh!" 

His  fierce  appeal  broke  off  in  a  cry  of  pain.  He 
had  at  last  raised  her  face  and  had  read  it.  For  the 
briefest  moment  he  stood  stupefied,  expressionless. 
Then,  cautiously,  half-cringingly,  as  if  expecting  a 
blow,  he  moved  back  to  Van  Dyke. 

"Why,  Grace!"  expostulated  Blake,  in  pitiful 
bravado.  "You're  crazy!  You  don't  know  what 
you're  implying — what  you're  letting  them  think.  I 
won't  believe  it.  Not  a  word  of  it.  It's  a  trick  to — 
to—" 

She  caught  his  shaking  hand  and  murmured  a 
broken  incoherent  syllable  or  two  amid  the  passion 
of  her  sobs. 

"Almighty!" 

Blake's  legs  gave  way  and  he  sprawled  inert  into 
a  chair,  his  head  on  his  breast.  He  had  all  at  once 
grown  old — very,  very  old.  Meantime,  Robertson 
had  forced  his  own  dazed  brain  back  into  a  sem- 
blance of  its  former  strong  control. 

"Van  Dyke,"  he  said  as  calmly  as  if  he  were  giv- 
ing a  routine  order,  "you  will  have  every  trace  of 

320 


JIM    BLAKE,    LOSER 

this  story  destroyed  to-night.   It  must  never  get  be- 
yond this  room.   I  can  count  on  you  ?" 

"Certainly,"  agreed  Van  Dyke  with  equal  cool- 
ness. 

There  was  no  hint  in  his  voice  or  in  his  manner 
that  Mark's  command  entailed  the  defeat  of  a  bill, 
the  collapse  of  millions  of  dollars  worth  of  stocks,  a 
probable  panic  on  Wall  Street  and  the  money  in- 
terests' total  if  temporary  loss  of  power  in  con- 
gress. For  the  moment,  the  great  corporation  lawyer 
chanced  to  be  also  a  man.  Something  of  this  Rob- 
ertson seemed  to  feel  as  their  hands  met  in  the  brief 
tight  clasp  of  reticent  men  who  dread  a  show  of 
emotion. 

On  his  way  from  the  room,  Van  Dyke  paused  be- 
side Blake's  chair. 

"Jim,"  he  said  hesitatingly,  "I'm  going  over  to 
the  Capitol.  Shall  I  tell  Mullins  to  let  the  bill  come 
to  a  vote?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Blake,  without  stirring  or  so 
much  as  looking  up. 

"Yes,"  he  said  again,  and  his  voice  was  dead. 
"Yes— I'm— I'm  licked." 

321 


THE   WOMAN 

Van  Dyke  looked  down  at  the  sunken  head,  the 
drooping  shoulders ;  and  he  was  nearer  to  pity  than 
his  New  York  masters  could  have  dreamed.  Sud- 
denly awkward,  abashed,  the  lawyer  made  his  way 
from  the  room.  Passing  Robertson,  he  hesitated 
again,  with  a  vague  idea  of  consolation. 

"Mark,  old  man,"  he  began.  "This  is  terrible. 
I—" 

"Please  go,"  said  Robertson,  without  seeing  the 
outstretched  hand  or  noting  the  wistful  inflection  in 
the  dry  voice. 

As  Van  Dyke  opened  the  door,  Wanda  made  as 
though  to  follow  him. 

"If  you  don't  need  me  any  further,  Mr.  Blake," 
she  said  gently,  "I'll  go." 

Blake  lifted  a  palsied  hand  in  negation. 

"In  there,"  he  muttered,  pointing  toward  the  door 
that  led  to  the  inner  rooms.  "I  must  speak  to  you— 
afterward." 

When  the  old  man  raised  his  eyes,  Mark  and 
Grace  alone  were  left  in  the  room  with  him.  Robert- 
son was  standing  moveless,  unseeing.  Grace's  sobs 
broke  the  tense  silence,  as  she  fought  weakly  for 

322 


JIM    BLAKE,    LOSER 

self-control.  Blake  crossed  over  to  her.   She  rose  at 
his  approach. 

"Daughter,"  said  Blake,  almost  timidly,  "they've 
all  gone.  None  of  them  will  tell.  But  there's  one 
thing  we've  got  to  know.  I'm  with  you,  no  matter 
what  you've  done.  But — but — tell  me — that — that 
this  was  all  over  and — and  done  with — before  you 
married  Mark!" 

"Father!" 

The  Woman  faced  him  in  dry-eyed  horror.  Every 
trace  of  weeping  was  seared  away  by  the  flame  of 
sudden  indignation.  And,  at  the  sight,  Jim  Blake 
gave  a  great  wordless  cry  and  gathered  her  into  his 
arms  as  though  she  were  a  baby. 

"Oh,  my  little  girl !"  he  choked,  "Dad's  own,  own 
little  girl!  We've  been  tearing  your  poor  heart  to 
pieces  and  your  old  father  was  the  bitterest  against 
you.  It's  all  right,  I  tell  you,  girl.  It's  all  right. 
Dad'll  see  you  through.  You  shan't  be  bothered. 
There,  there!  Oh,  don't  cry  like  that,  darling. 
Don't!" 

His  voice  grew  husky.  Leaving  her  abruptly,  he 
crossed  to  Robertson. 

323 


THE   WOMAN 

"Mark,"  he  faltered,  avoiding  his  son-in-law's  eye, 
"you  promised  to  protect  her.  This  is  the  time  to  do 
it.  It  was  'for  better,  for  worse'.  If  that  vow  is  any 
good  at  all,  it's  as  good  for  'worse'  as  for  'better'. 
Mark — be  gentle  with  her,  boy." 

He  seemed  about  to  say  more.  But,  glancing 
furtively  at  Mark's  set  changeless  face,  he  forebore. 

Slowly,  with  bent  shoulders  and  dragging  step 
Blake  made  his  way  to  the  big  room's  farthest  end. 
There,  in  the  window's  embrasure,  out  of  ear-shot, 
his  back  to  the  others,  he  halted. 

Drawing  aside  the  curtains  he  glanced  out  into 
the  night.  The  gloom  of  the  sleeping  city  was  be- 
low and  around  him.  But,  in  one  black  mass,  tiers 
upon  tiers  of  garish  lights  glowed.  There,  in  the 
Capitol,  the  Mullins  bill  was  coming  to  a  vote. 
There,  Matthew  Standish,  freed  by  a  miracle  from 
the  toils  that  craftier  men  had  woven  about  him,  was 
winning  the  victory  which  was  to  clear  for  him  the 
pathway  to  the  very  summit  of  political  power. 

There,  too,  the  cunningly  wrought  power  of  Jim 
Blake  was  falling  to  pieces,  unhindered — the  power 
that  years  of  toiling,  of  planning,  of  waiting,  of 

324 


JIM    BLAKE,    LOSER 

conscienceless  master-strokes  had  welded  so  strong- 
ly. It  was  forever  disintegrating.  And  with  that 
power — though  only  for  the  moment,  since  wrong 
must  thrive  while  earth  endures — the  mighty  and  in- 
tricate machine  was  lapsing  into  its  helpless  compo- 
nent parts. 

Blake  realized  it  all.  But  just  then  the  knowledge 
carried  no  hurt.  The  spectacle  of  the  downfall  was 
blurred  for  him  by  the  mist  of  a  Woman's  tears.  Its 
crash  and  the  yells  of  the  conquered  were  less  poign- 
ant to  his  ears  than  was  the  echo  of  a  Woman's 
heart-wrecked  sobbing. 

"I'm  licked,"  he  told  himself;  trying  thus  to  recite 
his  last  bitterest  lesson. 

But  the  words  meant  nothing  to  him.  And  he  tried 
again  to  make  clear  the  situation  to  his  own  stunned 
senses. 

"It's  gone,"  he  forced  himself  to  say,  half  aloud. 
"Everything's  gone,  for  me:  Washington — the 
crowd  that  would  have  followed  me  to  hell — and 
that  have — all  the  gaudy  careers  I  mapped  out  for 
Mark  and  Tom.  The  organization — the  dandiest 
graft  that  ever  came  to  any  man.  It's  gone.  And 

325 


THE   WOMAN 

Jim  Blake's  a  dead  one  forever  and  ever.  And  then 
some." 

But  he  found  his  subconscious  self  straying  from 
the  picture  he  was  so  ruthlessly  drawing.  His  mind 
would  not  fix  itself  on  the  lighted  Capitol  and  the 
wreck  of  his  life-work ;  but  crept  ever  back  into  the 
dim  room  behind  him.  Even  his  tongue  tricked 
him.  For  when  he  would  have  made  it  recite  further 
the  tale  of  his  losses,  it  muttered  brokenly : 

"My  own  little  girl !   Dad's  own,  own  little  girl !" 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE    HOUR    OF    RECKONING 

11  ,C  ARK  ROBERTSON  and  his  wife,  left  alone, 
-*-»-!•  together,  in  the  other  end  of  the  great  li- 
brary, faced  the  situation  for  which  Grace  had  so 
long  been  preparing  and  for  which  her  frightened 
years  of  preparation  had  proved  so  useless. 

He  knew.  That  was  all.  And  no  word  of  hers 
could  gloss  over  or  make  bearable  the  truth.  Where- 
fore she  spoke  no  word,  but  stood  looking  at  him; 
taking  in  every  detail  of  the  stout  figure  and  the 
strong  commonplace  face  as  though  she  wished  to 
carry  with  her  forever  their  memory. 

Mark  strove  for  speech.  But  for  the  first  time  in 
his  roughly  aggressive  career,  suitable  words  were 
denied  him.  Alternately  he  longed  to  tell  her  in 
naked  terms  what  she  was  and  how  utterly  he  de- 
spised her.  Again,  a  gush  of  self-pity  urged  him  to 
reproach  her  for  the  wrecking  of  his  ideals,  the  blast- 

327 


THE   WOMAN 

ing  of  his  happiness.  Vanity  coming  part  way  to 
his  aid,  he  framed — and  left  unspoken — a  curt  sen- 
tence of  farewell.  And,  in  the  end,  all  he  could  say 
was: 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me?" 

It  was  not  what  he  had  intended  to  say.  It  was 
banal.  It  expressed  none  of  the  stark  moods  that 
seethed  in  him.  Yet  as  she  did  not  answer,  he  found 
himself  asking  once  more : 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me?" 

And  now,  unknown  and  unwished  for,  there  crept 
into  his  bald  question  a  note  that  was  almost  of  en- 
treaty. And  at  the  sound,  the  dumb  devil  that  had 
locked  Grace's  lips  departed. 

"Tell  you?"  she  echoed.  "Oh,  if  you  knew  how 
I've  wanted  to !" 

"Then—" 

"I  didn't  dare.  I  didn't  dare." 

"Truth  and  honor  surely — " 

"Your  love  meant  more  to  me  than  truth  and 
honor.  I  sacrificed  them  to  keep  it.  I  would  sacri- 
fice them  and  everything  else  to  get  it  back.  Is  that 
shameless?  Perhaps.  The  truth  usually  is.  If  I  had 

328 


THE   HOUR   OF   RECKONING 

told  you,  you  would  never  have  forgiven  me.  You 
know  you  wouldn't.  If  I've  wronged  you — " 

"Iff"  he  burst  forth,  in  a  gust  of  wrath.  "//  you 
have  wronged  me?  Can  you  doubt  it?  Every  day 
ard  every  year  my  faith  and  trust  and  love  have 
grown;  until  they  became  my  whole  life.  My  world 
and  my  religion  were  yoii.  And  you  have  let  me  go 
on  that  way  until  there  was  nothing  else  for  me. 
Then  in  a  breath  you  wipe  it  all  away.  Wronged  me  ? 
If  you  had  told  me  at  the  very  first,  I  could  have 
killed  my  love  without  killing  myself.  I  would  still 
have  had  my  ambition,  my  political  hopes.  But  now, 
when  I  lose  you  I  lose  everything." 

"Do  you  lose  more  than  I?  Do  you  lose  half  as 
much?  It  was  my  happiness  I  was  fighting  for.  I 
loved  you  so,  Mark.  I  think,  when  a  woman's  real 
love  begins,  her  life  begins,  too.  And  everything 
that  went  before  seems  a  nightmare  and  unreal. 
When  I  found  you  loved  me,  I  couldn't  let  you  go. 
Then,  the  more  utterly  I  loved  you,  the  more  I 
wanted  to  clear  away  every  shadow  between  us  and 
tell  you  everything.  I  couldn't,  dear.  Even  though 
the  longing  grew  to  be  torture.  By  that  time  it 

329 


THE   WOMAN 

wasn't  just  a  question  of  my  own  selfish  happiness. 
It  was  for  your  sake — for  your  happiness — too. 
You  must  believe  that." 

"My  happiness  ?  You  have  guarded  it  well !  You 
talk  much  about  loving  me.  If  you  had  really  loved 
me,  your  love  would  have  made  you  honest  with 
me.  Love  that  leads  a  man  into  a  fool's  paradise 
and  then  to  a  hell  like  this,  goes  by  an  uglier  name — 

"Mark!" 

"If  you  had  loved  me  as  a  true  woman  loves,  you 
would  have  told  me.  You  would  have  had  to.  You 
could  not  have  deceived  me  like  this.  Love  doesn't 
feed  on  lies.  It  was  my  right  to  know  every- 
thing, so  that  I  could  decide  my  own  course.  In- 
stead, you  have  led  me  into  this  trap.  There  is.  no 
escape  now.  And  it  is  too  late  to  reproach  you  or  to 
try  to  make  you  realize  what  you  have  done.  You 
say  your  love  for  me  kept  you  from  telling?  Be- 
lieve that,  if  it  is  any  comfort  to  you.  I — " 

"You  are  right.  We  can  neither  of  us  see  the 
other's  point  of  view.  But  yours  is  the  accepted  idea 
and  mine  is  not.  Why  waste  breath  in  arguing? 

330 


THE    HOUR   OF   RECKONING 

You  will  do  what  you  and  the  world  think  right. 
Divorce  me,  if  you  will.  I'll  make  no  defense." 

"What  good  would  divorce  do  ?"  asked  Robertson 
miserably.  "I  could  leave  you,  of  course.  But  you'd 
still  be  my  wife.  Always  and  always.  The  one 
woman  in  the  whole  wretched  world.  Divorce  ?  Di- 
vorce is  for  people  who  never  loved.  Not  for  people 
whose  love  has  died." 

"You  say  I  don't  know  what  true  love  is,"  she 
laughed  bitterly.  "I'm  afraid  I  can  never  learn  it 
from  you.  So  your  love  has  died  ?  Love  can't  die, 
any  more  than  God  can  die.  You  have  never  loved 
me." 

«T » 

"Never.  I  see  now  that  you  didn't.  For  you  don't 
know  what  love  means.  I  lived  for  you.  Every 
thought  and  word  and  act  of  mine  was  shaped  for 
you.  And  for  you  alone.  I  knew  you.  I  knew  your 
faults,  your  follies,  your  brute  savagery.  And  I 
loved  you  for  them  as  well  as  for  the  good  that  was 
in  you.  But  what  was  it  you  loved  ?  The  woman  you 
married — or  a  snow-white  saintly  reputation?  If 
you  cared  only  for  the  reputation — that  is  gone  for- 

331 


THE   WOMAN 

ever.  But  if  you  loved  me — the  woman  I  am — then 
I've  been  everything  you  thought  I  was  and  wanted 
me  to  be — ever  since  the  first  moment  you  had  the 
right  to  think  of  me  at  all.  I  gave  you  my  life,  from 
that  time  on  and  forever.  And  it  has  been  all  yours. 
Before  then,  it  was  mine." 

"And  yet  you  let  me  believe  it  was  everything — 
your  whole  life — your  first  love." 

"It  was.  All  that  was  worth  the  giving.  All  that 
had  ever  been  worth  the  giving.  It  was  my  self. 
Oh,  can't  you  see  that  a  woman's  body  and  heart  and 
soul  belong  not  to  her  first  lover  but  to  her  first  love? 
No  woman  can  even  guess  what  love  is  until  she  has 
found  it.  And  I  found  it  only  when  I  knew  you.  I 
gave  you  everything.  I — Oh,"  she  broke  off,  her 
vehemence  changing  all  at  once  to  utter  weariness, 
"what's  the  use  of  trying  to  explain  to  you?  We're 
speaking  different  languages,  you  and  I.  You  were 
eager  a  while  ago  to  make  Wanda  Kelly  and — that 
— that  man  take  their  medicine,  as  you  called  it. 
Yet  they  were  innocent.  Why  should  I  expect  that 
you'll  deal  less  brutally  with  me  who  am  not?  In 
my  case  you  have  tenfold  more  reason  to  be  merci- 

332 


THE   HOUR   OF   RECKONING 

less.  For  your  vanity  is  hurt.  And  a  hurt  to  the 
vanity  is  always  infinitely  harder  to  bear  than  a  blow 
on  the  bare  heart.  That  is  why  husbands  and  wives 
can  forgive  each  other  every  crime  except  infidelity. 
They  can't  pardon  a  loved  one.  for  the  mortal  insult 
of  preferring  anybody  else.  Go  ahead  and  do  what- 
ever you  will.  I  won't  make  it  harder  for  us  both 
by  whining  for  mercy.  Jim  Blake's  daughter  ought 
to  take  her  medicine  at  least  as  pluckily  as  a  phone 
girl." 

"Grace,"  he  interposed,  jarred  by  her  forced  in- 
difference and  by  a  strain  of  hardness  he  had  never 
before  found  in  her.  "Don't  make  it — " 

"I'm  trying  to  make  it  easy.  We've  never  had  a 
real  quarrel,  you  and  I,  Mark.  So  don't  let  us  wind 
up  our  married  life  with  one,  now.  You  are  in  the 
right.  I  am  hopelessly  in  the  wrong.  I  have  cheated 
you.  I  admit  it,  and  I'll  accept  the  consequences.  It 
is  in  the  blood.  There  is  much  in  heredity.  My  fa- 
ther is  a — politician.  I  don't  know  who  my  grand- 
father was.  And  if  he  had  been  worth  knowing 
about,  I'd  know.  There  is  a  bad  strain  running 
through  the  family.  It  cropped  out  in  me.  Yes,  I 

333 


THE   WOMAN 

have  cheated  you.  You  had  the  right  to  demand  in 
our  bargain  the  hard-and-fast  terms  the  world  has 
decreed:  all  of  a  wife's  life  in  exchange  for  a 
frayed  and  battered  remnant  of  her  husband's.  I 
can't  meet  those  terfns,  though  I  tried  to  fool  you 
into  believing  I  could.  So  I  must  meekly  give  up  the 
love  whose  price  I  can't  pay.  Don't  let's  make  it 
harder  by  having  a  scene  over  it.  Good  night.  I'll 
stay  with  father  until  you  can  decide  just  what  you 
want  to  do  and  on  what  basis  we're  to  separate.  If 
it  would  do  any  good  to  ask  your  forgiveness  I'd 
ask  it.  That's  all.  Good  night,  Mark." 

She  held  out  her  hand  with  a  shy  wist  fulness.  He 
was  staring  straight  into  her  tortured  eyes  and  did 
not  see  the  gesture.  The  hand  dropped  back  limply 
to  her  side,  and  she  moved  to  rejoin  Blake. 

But  at  the  first  step,  Mark  barred  her  way.  She 
looked  at  him  in  tired  wonder.  His  face  was  set 
and  hard.  He  made  no  move  to  touch  her.  His 
voice,  when  he  spoke,  grated  like  a  file,  as  he  forced 
it  between  his  unwilling  lips. 

"Grace,"  he  began,  "I've  told  you  my  love  is  dead. 
And  I  lied  when  I  said  it.  I  planned  to  put  you  out 

334 


THE   HOUR   OF   RECKONING 

of  my  life.  And,  even  while  I  planned,  I  knew  I 
couldn't  do  it.  It  doesn't  matter  what  I  want  to  do 
or  what  I  ought  to  do.  Out  of  all  this  hideous  tan- 
gle, blazes  forth  just  one  thing  that  I  must  do, 
whether  I  want  to  or  not.  I  must  go  on  loving  you 
with  all  my  strength  and  life." 

"Mark !  Don't !  You  can't  mean — " 

"I  love  you,"  he  went  on  dully,  stubbornly,  as  if 
stating  some  bitter  truth.  "I  love  you.  There  is 
nothing  but  that — anywhere.  I  love  you.  And  my 
love  is  a  million  times  stronger  than  I  am.  It  doesn't 
matter  what  you  are  or  what  you  have  done.  I  love 
you.  When  one  looks  truth  straight  in  the  eyes,  it 
isn't  logic  or  right  or  wrong  or  good  or  bad  that 
counts.  It  is  love.  And  I  love  you.  Any  man  would 
tell  me  I'm  talking  like  a  fool.  I  should  have  said 
so  myself  an  hour  ago.  But  I  see  now  it  is  the  only 
true  wisdom  that  ever  was  wrung  from  my  smug, 
blind,  self-satisfied  brain." 

"Do  you  mean,"  she  panted  wildly,  "do  you  mean 
that  you  can — that  you  will — " 

"I  mean,"  he  cried,  brokenly,  his  self-control 
smashing  to  atoms  under  the  hammer  blows  of  his 

335 


THE   WOMAN 

heart,  "I  mean  there  is  nothing  in  all  this  world  for 
me,  dear  love,  away  from  you!  I  love  you.  And  I 
can't  go  on  without  you.  You  are  earth  and  Heaven 
and  hell  to  me.  I  love  you.  And  I  have  forgotten 
everything  but  that.  Girl  of  my  heart,  will  you  let 
me  make  you  forget,  too?  Oh,  I  love  you!  I  love 
you!" 


CHAPTER  XXV] 

THE  VICTOR? 

"^TMIEY  didn't  seem  exactly  to  be  Hankering 

•*•  after  my  society  in  there,"  observed  Wanda 
Kelly,  "so  I  came  back." 

Jim  Blake  turned  from  the  window  at  sound  of 
the  telephone  girl's  purposely  raised  voice.  Just 
within  the  threshold  from  the  inner  rooms  of  the 
suite,  Wanda,  with  elaborate  care,  was  shutting  the 
door  behind  her. 

Blake  glanced  quickly  about  the  room. 

"Yes,"  said  Wanda,  answering  the  question  in  his 
look  and  jerking  her  pretty  head  back  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  rooms  she  had  just  quitted.  "In  there. 
I  wouldn't  worry  if  I  were  you." 

Jim  Blake's  grim  face  took  on  a  light  as  incongru- 
ous as  the  play  of  sunset  rays  on  a  mummy.  The 
mask  of  age  and  defeat  seemed  to  melt  beneath  it. 
He  took  an  eager  step  toward  the  inner  room. 

337 


THE   VICTOR? 

"Just  a  minute,"  Wanda  halted  him.  "You  asked 
me  to  wait.  If  you  don't  need  me  here  any  longer — 

"Yes/-'  hesitated  Blake,  trouble  flitting  across  the 
new  light  in  his  eyes.  "I  wanted  to  ask  you — to — 
not  to  let  Tom  know  about  this.  His  sister — " 

"I'll  never  tell  him,"  she  promised.  "I  sent  him 
away  so  he  wouldn't  find  out." 

"You're  white,  clear  through,"  grudgingly  ad- 
mitted Blake.  "Will  you  do  one  thing  more  ?" 

"What?" 

"Bring  him  back  to  me." 

"If  I  meet  him  again,"  she  assented  primly,  "I'll 
send—" 

"I  didn't  say  'send',"  corrected  Blake,  "I  said 
'bring'.*' 

"That's  different  I—" 

"I'm  out  of  politics.  My  own  game  has  broken 
me  at  last.  I'm  old.  I  know  it  now.  I  never  did  till 
to-night.  I'm  old  and  I  want  my  children  around 
me." 

"I'll  tell  Tom,"  she  agreed,  softened  despite  her- 
self by  the  new  suppliance  in  a  voice  that  had  never 
before  been  turned  to  the  uses  of  entreaty.  "I'll  tell 

338 


THE   WOMAN 

him.  I'm  sure  he'll  come  back  to  you — when  he  un- 
derstands. Good  night,  Mr.  Blake." 

"There's  another  thing,"  he  broke  in  roughly, 
staying  her  departure,  "a  thing  that  isn't  easy  to 
say." 

"Then,  why  say  it?" 

"Because,"  he  growled,  "like  all  things  that  aren't 
easy  to  say,  it's  a  thing  that's  got  to  be  said.  Miss 
Kelly,  hasn't  to-night  pretty  nearly  squared  the  old 
debt  between  you  and  me?  You  and  yours  have  suf- 
fered a  lot  at  my  hands.  But,  after  what's  happened 
here  this  evening,  I  guess  you'll  admit,  as  far  as 
suffering  goes,  you  haven't  got  much  on  me. 
Haven't  I  paid  ?  Won't  you  say  we're  square  ?" 

"We're — we're  square,  Mr.  Blake,"  she  returned 
in  a  tone  she  could  not  make  wholly  steady  nor  im- 
personal. 

"And,"  pursued  Blake,  "and— Tom?" 

"That's  different,  too,"  she  faltered.  "I—" 

The  jangle  of  the  telephone  interrupted  her. 
Blake,  who  was  beside  the  desk,  picked  up  the  in- 
strument. 

"Hello,"  he  called  into  the  transmitter.  "Yes— 
339 


THE   VICTOR? 

yes — she's  here.  Who  wants  her?  Oh!  Yes,  put 
him  on  this  wire." 

He  lowered  the  telephone. 

"Some  one  to  speak  to  you,  Miss  Kelly,"  he  re- 
ported. 

Mechanically,  she  took  up  the  receiver,  and,  by 
long  habit,  her  voice  took  its  professional  drone : 

"Hello!"  she  called. 

Then,  turning  on  Blake,  in  surprise,  she  cried : 

"Why,  it's  Tom!" 

"Yes,"  drawled  Blake.  "So  I  gathered  from  the 
name.  I'm  glad.  Glad,  clear  down  to  the  ground. 
For  both  of  you.  Tell  him  so,  won't  you?" 


The  winter  sun  was  butting  its  way  over  the  east- 
ern sky-line.  The  dawn  was  bitter-cold,  mercilessly 
clear. 

And  into  the  track  of  the  first  white  glittering 
rays  walked  a  tired  man.  A  man  who  that  night 
had  won  a  mighty  victory.  A  victory  that  fore- 
shadowed the  richest  gifts  his  country  could  bestow. 
Before  him  the  future  stretched  bright  as  that  win- 

340 


Won't    you    say    we're    square? 


THE   WOMAN 

ter's  dawn.   As  dazzlingly  brilliant,  and  as  cold  and 
starkly  empty. 

.  In  Matthew  Standish's  ears,  as  he  returned  toward 
the  loveless  abode  that  he  hated  to  call  home,  still 
rang  echoes  of  the  pandemonium  that  had  broken 
loose  in  the  house  when  the  Mullins  bill  had  gone 
down  to  defeat.  His  arms  still  ached  from  the  pump- 
handling  a  host  of  shrieking  admirers  had  forced 
on  him. 

There  was  a  memory  of  tossing  glee-distorted 
faces  turned  upward  to  him  as  to  an  adored  leader. 
Raucous  voices  had  screamed  his  name  in  every 
variant  of  crazy  adulation. 

He  was  the  Conqueror.  The  Man  of  the  Hour. 
The  Champion  of  the  People.  The  Saint  George 
who  had  overwhelmed  the  dragon  of  corruption,  and 
had  set  a  captive  nation  free.  He  was  the  next 
speaker — the  next  president — anything  that  you  may 
choose. 

And  he  was  exhausted,  sick  to  the  soul,  hope- 
lessly miserable.  For  years  he  had  worked  steadily 
toward  this  hour  of  crass  triumph.  And  now  its 
taste  was  salt  and  ashes  between  his  teeth. 

341 


THE   VICTOR? 

He  had  crushed  his  enemies.  And  within  him  his 
heart  was  heavy  as  lead  for  their  shame. 

He  had  won — what?  He  had  been  strong  and 
had  overcome.  To  what  end  ? 

To  know  that  the  price  of  strength  is  loneliness. 
To  know  that  corruption  can  never  wholly  die.  To 
know  that  God  will  let  Satan  live  until  the  Judgment 
Day.  To  lift  for  a  little  moment  his  country  from 
the  mire  in  which,  within  a  few  years  at  most,  it 
must  again  wallow,  helpless. 

"There  is  only  one  lasting  victory,"  he  muttered 
disjointedly  to  himself,  as  he  moved  onward  in  the 
dazzling  ice-cold  track  of  light.  "At  the  last,  it  won't 
be  the  world's  applause  that  the  world's  great  men 
will  remember.  It  will  be  the  love  smile  of  a  Wom- 
an. And — I  shall  never  have  known  that  memory. 
What  is  the  rest  worth  ?" 


THE   END 


GROSSET&  DUNLAP'S 

DRAMATIZED    NOVELS 

THE   KIND   THAT   ARE   MAKING   THEATRICAL   HISTORY 
t        May  to  had  wheravir  books  ara  sold.       Ask  for  Cresset  ft  Dunlap'a  list 

WITHIN  THE  LAW.     By  Bayard  Veiller  &  Marvin  Dana. 
Illustrated  by  Wm.  Charles  Cooke. 

This  is  a  novelization  of  the  immensely  successful  play  which  ran 
for  two  years  in  New  York  and  Chicago. 

The  plot  of  this  powerful  novel  is  of  a  young  woman's  revenge 
directed  against  her  employer  who  allowed  her  to  be  sent  to  prison 
for  three  years  on  a  charge  of  theft,  of  which  she  was  innocent. 

WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  MARY,     By  Robert  Carlton  Brown. 
Illustrated  with  scenes  from  the  play. 

This  is  a  narrative  of  a  young  and  innocent  country  girl  who  is 
suddenly  thrown  into  the  very  heart  of  New  York,  "the  land  of  her 
dreams,  where  she  is  exposed  to  all  sorts  of  temptations  and  dangers. 

The  story  of  Mary  is  being  told  in  moving  pictures  and  played  ia 
theatres  all  over  the  world. 

THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM.      By  David  Belasco. 
Illustrated  by  John  Rae, 

This  is  a  novelization  of  the  popular  play  in  which  David  War, 
field,  as  Old  Peter  Grimm,  scored  such  a  remarkable  success. 

The  story  is  spectacular   and  extremely   pathetic  but  withal, 
powerful,  both  as  a  book  and  as  a  play. 
THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH.    By  Robert  Hichens.^ 

This  novel  is  an  intense,  glowing  epic  of  the  great  desert,  sunlit 
barbaric,  with  its  marvelous  atmosphere  of  vastness  and  loneliness. 

It  is  a  book  of  rapturous  beauty,  vivid  in  word  painting.    The  play 
has  been  staged  with  magnificent  cast  and  gorgeous  properties. 
BEN    HUR.    A  Tale  of  the  Christ.    By  General  Lew  Wallace. 

The  whole  world  has  placed  this  famous  Religious-Historical  Ro* 
mance  on  a  height  of  pre-eminence  which  no  other  novel  of  its  tune 
has  reached.  The  clashing-  of  rivalry  and  the  deepest  human  passions, 
the  perfect  reproduction  of  brilliant  Roman  life,  and  the  tense,  fierce 
atmosphere  of  the  arena  have  kept  their  deep  fascination.  A  tre- 
mendous dramatic  success. 

BOUGHT  AND  PAID  FOR.     By  George  Broadhurst  and  Arthur 
Hornblow.          Illustrated  with  scenes  from  the  play. 

f  A  stupendous  arraignment  of  modern  marriage  which  has  created 
an  interest  on  the  stage  that  is  almost  unparalleled.  The  scenes  are  laid 
in  New  York,  and  deal  with  conditions  among  both  the  rich  and  poor. 

_The  interest  of  the  story  turns  on  the  day-by-day  developments 
which  show  the  young  wife  the  price  she  has  paid. ^ 

AsJc  /or  compete  fret  list  of  G.  &  D.  Popular  Co^yrighed  Fiction 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST..  NEW  YORK 


GROSSET  &    DUNLAP'S 

DRAMATIZED  NOVELS 

Original,  sincere  and  courageous — often  amusing — the 
kind  that  are  making  theatrical  history. 

MADAME  X.    By  Alexandra  Bisson  and  J.  W.  McCoa 
aughy.     Illustrated   with    scenes   from    the   play, 
A  beautiful  Parisienne  became  an  outcast  because  her  hus- 
band would  not  forgive  an  error  of  her  youth.    Her  love  for 
her  son  is  the  great  final  influence  in  her  career.    A  tremen- 
dous dramatic  success. 

THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH.    By  Robert  Hichens. 

An  unconventional  English  woman  and  an  inscrutable 
stranger  meet  and  love  in  an  oasis  of  the  Sahara.  Staged 
this  season  with  magnificent  cast  and  gorgeous  properties. 

THE  PRINCE  OF  INDIA.    By  Lew.  Wallace. 

A  glowing  romance  of  the  Byzantine  Empire,  presenting 
with  extraordinary  power  the  siege  of  Constantinople,  and 
lighting  its  tragedy  with  the  warm  underglow  of  an  Oriental 
romance.  As  a  play  it  is  a  great  dramatic  spectacle. 

TESS  OF   THE   STORM   COUNTRY.     By  Grace 

Miller  White.    Illust.  by  Howard  Chandler  Christy., 

A  girl  from  the  dregs  of  society,  loves  a  young  Cornell  Uni« 

versity  student,  and  it  works  startling  changes  in  her  life  and 

the  lives  of  those  about  her.    The  dramatic  version  is  one  of 

the  sensations  of  the  season. 

YOUNG    WALLINGFORD.     By  George    Randolph 

Chester.    Illust.  by  F.  R.  Gruger  and  Henry  Raleigh, 

A  series  of  clever  swindles  conducted  by  a  cheerful  young 

man,  each  of  which  is  just  on  the  safe  side  of  a  State's  prison 

offence.    As  "Get-Rich-Quick  Wallingford,"  it  is  probable 

the  most  amusing  expose  of  money  manipulation  ever  seer* 

on  the  stage. 

THE  INTRUSION  OF  JIMMY.    By  P.  G.  Wode> 

house.    Illustrations  by  Will  Grefe. 

Social  and  club  life  in  London  and  New  York,  an  amateur 
burglary  adventure  and  a  love  story.  Dramatized  under  the 
title  of  "A  Gentleman  of  Leisure,"  it  furnishes  hours  of 
laughter  to  the  play-goers. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


**'>•-•-,     _^i_  University  of  California 

SOUTrftRN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


Ht    0  .'••••  i  Kl. 


lu-fcoc 

DUE  2  WKS  FROM  DAT 


i  RECEIVED 


DEC  1  71997 


000106919     4 


